


All Your Reasons

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blue Valentine-esque, Developing Relationship, Heavy Angst, M/M, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no heat or warmth in the loft, not anymore. It's just a decorated place they both keep their things, a place they never should've inhabited. It's open and spacious, but they're not. They're soggy and sinking.</p><p>Brooklyn AU where Harry and Zayn look back and look ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice this timeline jumps around. I hope it makes sense.

_Now._

  
  
The square slate clock in the kitchen has always been weirdly loud. The ticking drove them nuts, they realized, after they bought it at a home furnishing store and decided it would go in their back hallway. It was decided it was too loud, the ticking too intense to be right outside their bedroom door. They relocated it to the kitchen after only an hour of being in the hall, an hour after Zayn nailed into the plaster and accidentally created a jagged hole next to the nail, pounding the hammer too hard.  
  
Harry hated that hole, hated that without the clock to cover it, he had to see it every time he walked to the bedroom. He hated how hard Zayn was, how harsh his movements could be. He should've been more careful.  
  
Zayn hated the clock in the first place, hated the ticking. It was ugly. He hated Harry's style, his penchant for harsh edges, slate clocks and countertops and picture frames. Slate is too cold.  
  
That's what they listen to now, the ticking clock and the static of the record player.  
  
Harry holds a mug of tea he doesn't even like, a brand he found randomly in the back of the cupboard, just so his hands weren't empty. It's starting to cool, the steam hardly visible, the tea bag soggy and sinking. If Harry were more eloquent, if he could string his thoughts together in a straight line as he thought them, maybe he'd come up with some sort of metaphor for the whole thing. _Like a lukewarm cup of tea, they are. Just there to fill space, no heat, no warmth, soggy and sinking._ But Harry doesn't think that way, not the way he should, so he just holds his tea.  
  
The loft's energy feels heavy, like there's a literal cloud above his head. He feels like he's in an old newspaper comic, like the comics he used to read at the kitchen table when he ate breakfast as a child, like he is the main character moving from frame to frame with a little rain cloud above him, dripping down his face as he moves around. It's about then that it actually starts to rain outside, the fat droplets hitting the windows at a pace that makes Harry uncomfortable. It's not coming down hard, but it's no drizzle. It can't make up its mind. Now that it's started, Harry can't stop staring out the wall of windows behind Zayn.  
  
Zayn sits in Harry's uncomfortable armchair by the windows. He can't let himself focus on the clock, it drives him crazy, so Harry's favorite Elvis record continues to move in a monotonous circle, now just static noise. Zayn almost gets up to stop it, almost walks the half distance between them to the record player against the exposed brick wall. But he worries what true silence will sound like, what he'll do if he has to listen to that clock by itself, that clock mixed with the sound of fucking rain, so he bites at his thumbnail instead. Zayn doesn't need to hold anything in his hands, never really has, except for maybe his phone when he's anxious, or a cigarette when he's not.  
  
He wishes at that moment that he could tuck his bare feet up under himself. He hates this chair because there's no depth to it, just room enough for his bony ass. He can't spread out in it, or sit with his legs crossed under him. He can't relax in it. It stands up too straight as well, a trait he loathes in furniture. You should look at a chair or a couch or even a well placed floor pillow and _want_ to sit. Furniture should be inviting, not cold and modern just for the sake of looking nice. He shifts slightly, looking over Harry's head, wishing he could be in his own chair, the chair he left by a dumpster last year.  
  
Harry thinks it about then, as their eyes finally meet, that it was over before it began. It was over the moment they chose to move in together, the moment Harry relented and let Zayn convince him to leave his record player in the living room instead of the bedroom like he wanted.  
  
Zayn looks at Harry, holding his cold tea, and thinks it. It was over because it never should've started in the first place. It was over the moment Zayn got rid of his favorite arm chair because Harry said it didn't fit the loft.  
  
Harry sits with his mug of tea and Zayn bites at his thumb. They sit opposite each other, far away, disconnected. It's fitting really, the way they're placed on this day, because it's so reminiscent of how they've lived for the past few weeks.  
  
There's no heat or warmth in the loft, not anymore. It's just a decorated place they both keep their things, a place they never should've inhabited. It's open and spacious, but they're not.  
  
They're soggy and sinking.

  
  
***

  
  
_Then._

  
  
Harry remembers what he had for breakfast every morning of every major life event he's ever had. Or at least, he remembers the good major life event breakfasts.  
  
He could tell you what he made, how he prepared it, if he had juice or coffee, and if it set him up for the day like breakfast is supposed to. Harry always made his own breakfast, even as a kid. He enjoyed preparing his first meal, the care it took so early in the morning to get it right. His mom would let him stand on a stool in their kitchen downtown, would let him toast his own toast, pour his own milk. The days they didn't have anything in the fridge, the days right after they paid the rent and bills, she'd still let him prepare his own food, even if it was just letting him stand over the sink, slicing a banana into a bowl so he could eat it with a real fork, at the table, to let him pretend like he wasn't going to school hungry.  
  
He could usually tell which days were going to be special days. He could tell when a day was about to be big, or memorable, a day he'd remember for the rest of his life. Even now, he can usually call those days beforehand. Harry knows himself, knows the world he lives in, the people who inhabit it. He knows as he wakes up, as he opens his eyes and yawns, if the day is going to be a big one. He remembers the breakfasts from the morning of his first dance where he thought he might be getting kissed the first time (he did; simple oatmeal), the day he thought he might be getting into college (he did; three cheese omelet), the day he hoped to lose his virginity (he definitely did; French toast).  
  
He smiled through those breakfasts, and countless others, on days he tucked a napkin over his shirt so he wouldn't dirty himself for the big stuff. And on the not-so-fun memorable days, the days he woke up shivering because the heat had been turned off, the days he knew he'd be turning in late homework yet again, the days his mom wouldn't be there to greet him in the kitchen, those days he didn't remember breakfast. Maybe he didn't eat at all. Maybe he had slice of toast as he walked to school. He couldn't tell you what he had for breakfast those mornings, even if he tried. Harry's good at forgetting things on purpose. It's a tactic that's served him well.  
  
The day he met Zayn Malik, he had an onion bagel and cream cheese sloppily smeared over each half. He distinctly remembers rushing through his tiny kitchen in his tiny apartment and grabbing the first thing he saw, a bagel he had shoved in the bread box a few days before. It was almost too hard to be edible, too dry to be good. Harry didn't even have time to toast it. His alarm kept ringing in his ears from his headphones, his last ditch effort to make himself not be late, as he hurried to spread (possibly expired) cream cheese onto the halves, knife clanging in the sink as he threw it on his way out the door, bag swinging around him.  
  
He didn't have the foresight to know this day would be big, or in any way memorable. He had a job interview at a building in Harlem, some reception job at a small publishing house, sure. But it didn't register to him that it'd be a special day, anything other than a day where he finally got a new job, to pay off the bills he still owed. So he probably wouldn't have remembered this breakfast had he not reminded himself as he fell asleep that night, in his cramped apartment in Brooklyn.  
  
Harry made his way out his front door, bagel halves shoved in his mouth as he locked it. Harry's mom always told him he could hold anything in his mouth if he tried hard enough, food to free up his hands, straps to bags when he needed to throw a pair of shoes on, flower stems when he pulled people on dance floors at weddings. As he clambered into the elevator, he was almost positive he had cream cheese all over his face. He also had to shake his head at himself, knowing he'd never have time to get coffee, to steady himself before meeting with the editor in twenty minutes.  
  
Harry didn't even see him until he felt his bag lift up on his right side, felt the sudden loss of weight on his shoulder. As a New Yorker, he immediately jerked away, not wanting to be robbed of his precious notebooks and the $4.67 he had in the hidden pocket. He quickly turned his head, face smeared with cream cheese, hair falling in his eyes, and saw him for the first time.  
  
Zayn stood in the elevator next to him, a smirk on his face, as he lifted Harry's bag again to help him get his arm through it and across his body properly. Harry almost dropped the coat from his left hand, the bagel from his right hand, as he tried to swallow the food in his mouth and take it in. The person staring at him, the person helping him adjust himself, was so fucking perfect, it scared him. He truly felt scared as he stared back.  
  
That's what Harry remembers most about their first encounter, the fear. It was a literal fear of falling, an old fear Harry had of elevators, tight spaces, plummeting to his death, a fear he's learned to live with as an adult. He gets on elevators every day now, let's his body be transported from floor to floor of various shitty buildings, elevators he tries to ignore the cracks in the concrete of, as they all take him from surface to surface. No matter what elevator he steps into, he listens for every creak of the the cables, stares at the emergency buttons just in case he needs to find them.  
  
So the fear made sense in that moment, as the sweat lined Harry's brow, as he stared at the guy next to him. He remembers feeling scared of dying, but also of living in a world where a person like this exists, a real, tangible person with that intense face.  
  
He politely nodded at Harry, motioned to his lips, as Harry quickly swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He could tell his face was beet red, could feel his pulse quickening as the elevator to his building gave that same particular lurch near the fourth floor. Harry realized this guy was in a red tshirt for a courier company, had a helmet in one hand, and a clipboard in the other.  
  
"Hey."  
  
That was the first thing Zayn Malik ever said to Harry Styles.  
  
"Hey."  
  
That was the first thing Harry Styles ever said to Zayn Malik.

  
  
***

  
  
The day they moved into the loft, Harry had a small muffin from the corner bakery near their new building. He could barely contain himself as he bounced on his toes in line, waiting his turn in the bakery he was sure was going to be _theirs_. It would be _their breakfast place_ , the place they went every other morning to get muffins and bagels and coffee for each other, where they'd soon learn the names of the people who worked there. Maybe they'd become the types of regulars to send Christmas cards and bring treats for the owners, the regulars everyone loved the most.  
  
He ordered his muffin and black coffee with a huge smile on his face, like a crazy person, as is his way, and he couldn't wait to tell Zayn about his plan. He loved the little bakery already, with it's crumbling paint and rows of family photos on the walls. He already loved their new loft in their new neighborhood, a step up from both of their previous places, both now making more money and finally moving out of their similarly shitty buildings in Brooklyn.  
  
They'd been together almost a year before moving in together, before taking that leap and conjoining the last separate parts of their lives once and for all. Harry walked into the loft with his paper bag and coffee, to see Zayn standing with his hands on his hips in the kitchen, frowning.  
  
"I don't like the counters," he said, turning to Harry, as he walked in.  
  
"But they're so sleek, babe! Look, they're so new, you know?" Harry smiled, as he ran his hand along it, stepping closer to Zayn.  
  
"I don't like the kitchen. It's all edges and steel and grey."  
  
Harry finally got to him and wrapped his arms around his middle, chin on his shoulder, as they looked out at the empty loft together, at the one main room with the vaulted ceiling, the open kitchen that led right into the dining area and living room.  
  
"I love the kitchen," Harry said, before kissing Zayn's neck.  
  
"It doesn't even look like it fits, though. The building isn't brand new, the exposed brick has character. The rest of the place looks lived in, like it makes sense. But the kitchen's all new and shiny. It doesn't fit together," Zayn said, holding Harry's arms tightly against his chest, leaning back into him.  
  
"Then the kitchen will be mine, and the living room will be yours," Harry said into his neck, smiling, placating Zayn like he always does.  
  
Zayn moved away from him slightly so he could turn around to face Harry. He leaned in to kiss him, to nudge him against the counter. Harry stepped back and let Zayn move him, let Zayn crowd between his legs. Zayn held his face and opened his mouth with his, like he knew Harry likes. He pushed into him firmer, harder, with his hips against the counter, Harry's ass digging into the edge of it. Zayn nudged him again, kissed him deeper.  
  
Harry had to push back, had to hold his hands at Zayn's chest to move him, so he could step away from the counter.  
  
"Did that hurt?" Zayn whispered against his mouth.  
  
Harry wouldn't give him the satisfaction, so he tried to lean in to kiss Zayn again, to shift Zayn back, to give his ass a break from the harsh edge.  
  
"I thought so," Zayn smiled, kissing his cheek, before walking out of the kitchen to grab more boxes.  
  
Harry had forgotten to get Zayn breakfast, had forgotten to get him coffee, even. But Harry didn't even realize until he was halfway through his muffin.

  
  
***

  
  
Zayn knew where Harry lived because he delivered a package to a woman on the floor above Harry's little apartment in Brooklyn earlier that morning. He had taken the stairs up, to give his legs some exercise after being on the motorcycle most of the day before. He lucked out by taking the elevator down, by jumping on it at the last second, just because. He lucked out even more to see a gorgeous guy with wild hair getting on the floor below, cream cheese on his face, busted brown leather boots on his feet.  
  
So when Zayn returned that night and knocked firmly on his door, he smiled, contemplating if everything happened for a reason after all.  
  
Harry opened the door quickly, threw it open to reveal himself. Zayn wondered if all of Harry's movements were so frantic, so wild. It seemed like from the moment he stepped onto the elevator earlier, he was all wild arms and misstepped feet.  
  
"Hey," Zayn said first, just like he did earlier.  
  
"Hey," Harry smiled back, letting him inside.  
  
Harry's apartment was small, so small they had to maneuver around each other so Harry could sit on the tiny couch to put on his boots. Zayn looked around at the few photos tacked to the wall, frame-less, of a woman he guessed was Harry's mom, or older sister, or aunt. The cracks of the walls crawled from the floor to the ceiling, the small kitchen practically empty of decoration. Zayn thought it looked a lot like his place, actually.  
  
Harry looked at him with pink cheeks, pink cheeks that matched his obscenely pink lips, embarrassed by the state of his place, of the only place he could afford. But Zayn smiled at him, because he loved it.  
  
After moving away from his parents' house in Long Island, Zayn saw his own little apartment as a haven, a little slice of heaven all his own. He grew up in a house full of extremes, either extreme silence or extreme turmoil. Sometimes his parents wouldn't talk for days, would barely even talk to _him_ across their dinner table, when they were "silent fighting." The days they actually fought, the days they blew up at each other over bullshit like which brand of fertilizer to use, which of them would begrudgingly help Zayn with homework, which of them hated their life more, those were the days Zayn dreamed of the city most. He didn't need a large house or a yard, not yet. He didn't need a living room or a deck. At the moment, he only needed one room, one that was his, one he paid for on his own, to be happy. The house would come later.  
  
"I like it," Zayn assured him out loud, smiling. "It has character."  
  
"Thanks," Harry nodded. "I mean, I would change all of this if I could. I want to move, get a bigger place. I want a house soon."  
  
Zayn didn't say a word to that. His smile faltered slightly, though.  
  
They didn't say much as the walked across the street to the Chinese restaurant Harry mentioned was good. They settled at a table, shuffled their menus around, not sure what to do. Zayn smiled at Harry again, because he had a feeling Harry was the type of person who needed assurance in stressful situations. Harry seemed to relax as he smiled back.  
  
"So what do you do?" Harry asked, sipping his water.  
  
"Right now I deliver shit," Zayn said simply, also grabbing for his water. "I just work whatever job I can, I guess. Pay the rent."  
  
"That's cool," Harry nodded. "What's the end goal? What do you want to be when you grow up?"  
  
Zayn thought for a minute, let the thought roll around in his head as he played with his straw. He was twenty four, technically already a grown up. But he definitely didn't have a major plan just yet.  
  
"I don't know, I guess. I always saw work as a way to make money, not as like… a thing you enjoy."  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"I just got a job today, actually," Harry said, with a small smile. "It's nothing fancy, just at a small publisher. At a desk, answering phones. I want to read books for a living and decide what gets published. I want to print books and change the world, you know?"  
  
"That's awesome," Zayn said intensely, raising his water to cheers him. "Maybe you will."  
  
Zayn felt it, as they started eating their food not long after that conversation, the swooping feeling in his gut that told him Harry Styles was going to change _his_ world alright. He felt it after dinner, as they walked together, talking about their lives in New York, their favorite places. Harry told him about his favorite bakery in Brooklyn, the place he'll take the subway uptown for just for their coffee because it reminds him of his grandma.  
  
He felt it the second Harry grabbed his hand first, the second they started laughing at the joke Zayn heard his neighbor make over the phone the week before, the joke he heard through his paper thin walls.  
  
He felt it when he handed Harry his sweater later on their way back to Harry's place, his favorite sweater, the dark grey one with white flecks here and there in the fabric, the sweater that hung on Harry's lanky body all wrong.  
  
And Zayn definitely felt it when Harry kissed him in the lobby of his building after Zayn walked him home, right there next to the mailboxes, next to the old potted plant that smelled like piss. It was like they were falling, falling forward and backward and into each other, all at once. Zayn threaded his hands through Harry's hair, held his face like it was glass, licked his lips like the red lollipop he wondered if Harry licked earlier, prayed he sucked on before their date. If not, he worried for himself. Because if those pink lips of Harry's were permanent, he knew they'd be a constant reminder that Zayn should be attached to them in some way.  
  
Harry told Zayn between breaths moments later that he hadn't had an honest to god lollipop in years.  
  
Zayn knew he was fucked.

  
  
***

  
  
It had been crumbling for weeks before it finally came to a head, before they finally fought like Zayn's parents did, like the fights Harry heard Zayn describe to him numerous times. Zayn hadn't even introduced Harry to his parents until a few weeks before they moved in together, for fear of scaring Harry off. He told Harry over and over that the Maliks weren't healthy people, weren't good people. They would judge Harry, would judge Zayn for choosing someone from the city, someone who wanted to read books instead of work "like an honest man, with dirty hands and a firm grip."

Harry remembers leaving that dinner with his hand tightly in Zayn's, both of them holding on for dear life, after what Yaser said to Zayn.  
  
That's what Harry thinks about in bed that night, that dinner with the Maliks. Harry and Zayn had been quiet for days, walking around each other like ghosts, like strangers who lived in the same building instead of the same loft, like Maliks.  
  
Harry had woken up at four in the morning, the spot in the bed next to him empty and cold. Zayn hadn't come home the night before, said he was going at Michelle's the evening before, but he never came back. He said he "only needed a fucking minute, Harry."  
  
Harry couldn't sleep alone, hadn't been able to for a long time, so he mostly tossed and turned that night. He turned on his back and wondered when it would happen, the fight. The fight they kept having, over and over.  
  
Zayn didn't turn up until noon, didn't open the sliding door to the loft until the sun was high in sky and Harry was wrung out and exhausted. Harry sat on the couch, his legs moving, his feet tapping. He couldn't sit still.  
  
"Where were you?" he said, voice as level as he could make it.  
  
"I told you I would be at Michelle's," Zayn said, throwing his keys into the bowl by the door. Harry hated that fucking bowl, the ceramic edge all chipped from the numerous sets of keys constantly slamming into it. He hated the sound it made as well, the dull sound Zayn insisted on making every single fucking time.  
  
"I didn't think you'd be there all night. I was worried."  
  
"No you weren't," Zayn sighed, walking into the kitchen.  
  
Harry stood up and walked in behind him, furious.  
  
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"You weren't worried. If you were worried, you would've called. You were just alone. You hate being alone. You can't sleep," Zayn said into the fridge, as he reached in it, busying his hands.  
  
"Fine, Zayn. You're right, I can't sleep when you're gone. I can't sleep when you're not next to me, when you're gone and won't talk to me. That makes me a terrible fucking person, right? The fact that I can't sleep without you?" he said, voice wavering, before stepping back into the main room to collect himself.  
  
"Oh please, don't even start this shit, Harry. You always fucking do this, start something like you did yesterday and then blame me for it, blame me for needing a second away from this fucking place," Zayn said, his turn to follow Harry.  
  
"What did I start?" Harry turned to him, hands on his hips, ready for it.  
  
"Don't fucking play it like this, Harry. Don't," Zayn pointed at him.  
  
"I just don't understand why you can't be happy for me. This is a good thing, Zayn. I got the promotion, I got the office. I have a fucking assistant. And you're acting like I told you I'm going to war," Harry practically yelled.  
  
Zayn started to pace then, wouldn't even look at Harry.  
  
"You know, I'm always happy for you. I really am. I'm happy for every promotion you get, every little thing you accomplish in that fucking office. Really. But you know for a fucking fact that this is different, that you'll be traveling all the time. You'll be gone all the time, Harry."  
  
"But I get a raise! And I do get to travel! You know I've always wanted to travel."  
  
"No, I'm pretty sure you wanted to change the world, remember?" Zayn said, finally stopping to look at Harry. "You wanted to read books and change the world. You didn't want to be in charge of the business side of shit."  
  
"Oh Jesus Christ," Harry said, throwing his hands up, moving away towards the brick wall. "I can't fucking win with you."  
  
Zayn started to pace again, and Harry wanted to grab for him, he really did. He knew this was all reminiscent of Zayn's parents, of the home he grew up in, a home with adults who begged and pleaded each other to stay, while in equal measure pushing each other apart.  
  
But he couldn't stop. Harry can never stop.  
  
"You're jealous. That's it, right? Because you still don't know what you want to do?"  
  
Zayn looked at him again.  
  
"Go fuck yourself, Harry," Zayn snarled, before walking past him, down the hall, past the hole he once made in the wall with a hammer.  
  
He slammed the bedroom door so hard, Harry felt it in his bones, felt it through the floorboards.

  
  
***

  
  
Their first fight was one of Zayn's favorite days, by far. Because after they kissed in Harry's lobby, after they explored each others' mouths the next night, and the night after, he knew early on they wouldn't fight, not really. You can't connect the way they did and be like the Maliks, people who fight and tear at each other. He knew he'd never end up like his father, would never end up with someone like his mother, so kissing Harry was like realizing all at once that he was well on his way to being his own person in his own relationship.  
  
So when they finally did "fight," a few short weeks after their first date, after their first kiss, he smiled.  
  
Harry paced around his tiny apartment in a pair of sweats, while Zayn sat naked on the small couch with a lazy smile on his face. He loved heated Harry, the Harry who couldn't sit still, who couldn't shut his mouth.  
  
"I'm mad at you," Harry hissed, hands on his hips, moving around the room.  
  
"I'm sorry," Zayn smiled. He couldn't help himself.  
  
"Stop smiling," Harry said as he turned to him, staring him down.  
  
"I didn't mean to look, I swear."  
  
"Yes you did."  
  
Zayn knew he was guilty, because he _did_ mean to look, he knew exactly what he was doing when he looked in Harry's bag after Harry told him not to, while Harry was cleaning up in the bathroom after getting fucked good and hard against the wall by the open window. He knew Harry knew he was guilty, Harry having caught him with his grubby hands in the brown bag on the couch, the bag Zayn helped shift on his shoulder the very first day they met.  
  
"Okay fine, I got impatient. I wanted to see the surprise. Don't be mad at me," Zayn smiled again, the smile he knew brought Harry to his knees.  
  
It wasn't quite his knees, per se, but Harry did fall at that, at Zayn's words of being excited and anxious. Harry fell into his lap, his legs on either side of Zayn's bare thighs, his arms around his neck. The sounds of the city drifted in through the open window, the sounds that lull them to sleep when they spend nights in Harry's small bed, after Harry's downstairs neighbor stops yelling at them through his own window like he always does, to stop "fucking like bunnies, you fuckers."  
  
"Did you even see what it was?" Harry said in a low voice, hands running along the back of Zayn's head.  
  
"No, you caught me before I could," Zayn said, kissing at Harry's neck, his favorite spot on Harry's body. "Is it wrapped? Is it big?"  
  
Harry smiled against the side of his head.  
  
"No," he whispered, reaching to his right for his bag, reaching in and pulling his hand out in a fist.  
  
Zayn looked at the fist questionably, the hand that looked empty. He then wondered if this whole thing was some dumb Harry-ism, some surprise that would turn out to be "a pretend voucher for more blowjobs," or "a handful of love and affection." He turned back to Harry with a smirk, was about to ask if the surprise was an empty hand for Zayn to thrust his dick into, when Harry brought his hand between them and opened it up.  
  
There, in the center of his palm, sat a shiny new key.  
  
"I want you here all the time, whenever you want to come over. I want you to be able to come in, when I'm asleep, or if I'm in the shower, or if I'm gone," Harry said quietly, staring down at the key in his hand.  
  
Zayn looked down at it as well, both of them quiet, transfixed, looking at something so simple.  
  
"I just want you here whenever you want to be here. _If_ you want to be here," Harry whispered, looking up at him, nervous.  
  
Zayn looked up from the key, looked up into Harry's open face, the face he once wanted to lean over and lick cream cheese off of. He looked into the face of the person he felt still changing his world, over and over again, every day since they met. He touched his cheek, ran his thumb along Harry's bottom lip, the pink lip he could suck on for hours, for days, the lip he swears could give him sustenance until the day he dies.  
  
"I want to be here whenever you want me here," Zayn said back.  
  
"I want you here," Harry said, leaning in, kissing him.  
  
They kissed like they were using breath from each others' lungs to breathe, like it was all they could do. There was no heat, no need to rush it, to turn it into anything. They held each other, like glass.  
  
Zayn pulled away first, gripping Harry's hand, nudging the key out of Harry's grasp.  
  
"Babe?" he said, breathless.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"What'd you have for breakfast this morning?" Zayn said against Harry's chest, smiling.  
  
Harry laughed, the sound reverberating through Zayn.  
  
"I had an apple," he whispered. "A sliced apple with peanut butter. It was delicious."

Their first fight was delicious, too. In the best possible way.

  
  
***

  
  
It was never the same after Zayn told Harry to go fuck himself, after he slammed their bedroom door after one of their last fights. It wasn't the same because whenever Zayn looked at Harry, he saw a different person. And whenever Harry looked at Zayn, he saw the exact same person from the day they met, not one thing different, or evolved, or changed from the boy he met in an elevator with no idea where he wanted to go.  
  
Harry knew it wasn't the same, because _he_ wasn't the same and Zayn was.

Zayn knew it wasn't the same because he wanted something Harry wasn't ready to give him and Harry couldn't care less.  
  
It especially wasn't the same when Harry happened to walk down Montague Street two weeks after that fight, after two weeks of them walking around each other like strangers, to see Zayn smiling at guy. Harry saw it plain as day, the smile spread across Zayn's face that he knew well, the smile he used to bring out in Zayn when he crossed his eyes at him across a crowded bar, their tell for when the person they were talking to was boring them.  
  
Zayn was on a corner holding coffee, smiling at a guy in dark green shirt, a guy with messy blond hair and blue eyes, a guy who laughed so hard back at Zayn that his entire body propelled upwards, like his laugh was working its way out of him from his toes.  
  
Zayn looked across the street and saw Harry looking, saw Harry's blank expression.  
  
The smile slid of his face and they stared at each other, the city moving around them because the city doesn't give a shit what you're going through, it stops for no one. Nothing stopped, nothing crashed.  
  
Brooklyn kept moving, kept on like it always did.  
  
They stared.

They stared like a couple of strangers, on separate sides of the street, far away, disconnected.

 

  


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Now._

 

  
  
The rain hasn't stopped. The clock continues ticking.  
  
The longer they stare at each other, the easier it gets.  
  
Zayn sees Harry, looks at Harry right in front of him, his Harry with messy hair and neat fingernails, his Harry with dirty feet from walking around the apartment and then the outside hall earlier, after the fight and the yelling, after Harry broke the ceramic bowl by the door, the bowl he always hated. He sees Harry's hands clasp his cold mug of tea tighter, sees the bags under his eyes, the weariness on his face.  
  
He sees Harry and feels nothing.  
  
Zayn remembers the first time he saw Harry in that elevator, almost two years ago to the day. He remembers his smell, the leftover soap from the shower he probably took the night before, the slight stubble on his chin from being late and not shaving. He remembers that stupid bagel sticking out of his mouth, the bag over his shoulder that did nothing but weigh him down. He remembers feeling something instantly, this weird mixture of fear and want and euphoria. It was a feeling he'd never had before, a feeling he wasn't sure he was wired for. Maliks didn't feel much, and if they did, it was all wrong, all backwards, something Zayn thought he was blessed to have not inherited from his parents.  
  
So it startles him now, after all this time, to see Harry, to look at Harry and feel nothing. Like a true Malik.  
  
Harry sees Zayn, looks at Zayn right in front of him, his Zayn with neat hair and short, bitten fingernails, his Zayn with his back straight in the chair and the last remnants of the tremor in his hands, the hands that couldn't stop shaking only hours before from pure rage and adrenaline, as Harry flew around him. He sees Zayn's empty hands, his empty eyes, the defeat on his face.  
  
He sees Zayn and feels nothing.  
  
Harry should've known this is how they'd end up, on opposite ends of their perfectly shitty loft, the loft they both always wanted for different reasons. Harry practically grew up in a closet, could literally pretend he was the boy who lived in the cupboard under the stairs. Sure, he grew up with a doting and loving mother. But she had to work three to four jobs at a time to afford rent. He grew up in a family of two. Harry wanted a loft to grow even more, to settle in, to spread his arms and not touch two walls. He wanted Zayn to want him, to be a new family of two, to earn money to take care of himself, and his mom, in a big way. It's what he always wanted: to be a true grown up with a car, and a job, and a home on the Upper East Side. Zayn always had other plans.  
  
It doesn't startle him at all now, after all this time, to see Zayn, to look at Zayn and feel nothing. Like a true Malik.  
  
They don't cry. Not yet. They just keep staring, each thinking about their individual pasts, the moments they shared, the ideals they had.  
  
They stare across the room until the rain stops, until the ground outside is just as soggy as they are.

  
  
***

  
_Then._

  
  
It seemed like everything they did was too fast, like they were in overdrive, in the fast lane, speeding towards something they couldn't see. They met, went on a date that night, had their first kiss, and were in Harry's bed four days later.  
  
Zayn knocked on Harry's door that fateful night with his hard knuckles, the sound echoing around him in the dingy hallway. He felt antsy, ready to see Harry again after two days without so much as a look, a glance. They had been texting, but it wasn't the same. His body ached to be near Harry's.  
  
So when Harry answered the door with a weird look on his face, Zayn had to take a step back. He knew something was off, could tell Harry wanted to say something.  
  
"Hey Hazza," he said, shaking his head, shaking it off, stepping inside to kiss him, the sounds of the city coming in through the window.  
  
Harry grabbed at his coat, pulled him in, kissed him, his tongue slipping into Zayn's mouth with such ease. Zayn sighed into it, his body finally relaxed now that he had another hit, as he held Harry's face.  
  
"How was your day?" Harry said, before kissing him again.  
  
"Good," Zayn kissed back. "Yours?"  
  
"S'good," Harry panted against his mouth, kissing, biting.  
  
Zayn could feel himself falling over the edge, right then and there, could feel the cord tethering him to the bridge about to snap. He felt flushed, like his cock was going to revolt, it ached in his jeans.  
  
But he didn't know where it was heading, if Harry was trying to ruffle him, or was just as needy as he was to be attached at the mouth. So he pulled back and smiled.  
  
"You hungry? Dinner, yeah?"  
  
Harry got that look on his face again, the look he had when he opened the door.  
  
"I mean, I'm not really hungry after all," he said, scratching at his neck, still holding Zayn close with one arm.  
  
Zayn narrowed his eyes. He could tell Harry was lying. Harry wouldn't shut up earlier that day about a restaurant he wanted to take Zayn to, a place only a few subway stops uptown.  
  
"What's going on?" Zayn questioned, grabbing for his hand.  
  
Harry looked at the floor between their feet.  
  
"My paycheck was smaller than I thought it would be. It was just the first one, so… And like, I had to pay some shit off today," he said, cheeks reddening.  
  
Zayn couldn't believe Harry was worried, is the thing. He'd pay for every single fucking thing Harry wanted, or asked for, for the things he _didn't_ ask for, forever, if he could. So he grabbed Harry by the cheeks and brought his face up.  
  
"Let's get dinner, Haz. Take me to that place," he said firmly.  
  
"But I can't."  
  
"Yes we can," Zayn said louder. "Show me where."  
  
Harry looked at him, saw the determined look on Zayn's face, saw that Zayn wanted to do what Harry wanted to do, money be damned. He could tell Zayn didn't care, was going to pay anyways, whether Harry had the money or not. Zayn didn't even need to say anything, Harry just got it. He got that Zayn wanted to take care of him. And as much as his pride screamed at him not to, to tell Zayn he wants to pay for his own dinner, wants to be his own person, to have Zayn so willing to do it for him, almost brought him to his knees.  
  
In that moment, he really wasn't hungry. Because Zayn looked at him like he was beautiful, like nothing else really mattered. Harry hadn't felt like that in a long time. So he leaned in and kissed Zayn again.  
  
Zayn wasn't hungry either.  
  
Zayn licked his way into Harry's mouth, understanding that Harry wasn't distracting him, but was instead letting himself go. Harry wanted to let himself be vulnerable, let himself be the broke kid with no money, and not give a shit. Zayn kissed him harder, pushed against him.  
  
Zayn gasped when he felt Harry's erection pushing through his jeans, rubbing against his own. Zayn grabbed at the hair by Harry's ears and opened his mouth further with his own, walking him backwards towards the bed. Harry was like putty in his hands, pliant and soft, as Zayn backed him to the bed, as the backs of his knees hit it, as he fell on his back, bare feet still on the floor.  
  
Zayn stood over him, let himself take it in, took a few snapshots in his head of Harry underneath him. Zayn wanted to unwrap him like a present, like it was his birthday, like Harry deserved. So he leaned over him and grabbed at the thin white tshirt, tugged it up and off. He slowly undid Harry's belt, unzipped his jeans, sank to his knees so he could pull them off. Zayn gasped when he realized Harry wasn't wearing anything under them, as he peeled the tight fabric off, as Harry's hard cock sprang from beneath the fly.  
  
Harry hissed slightly as the cool air hit him, as he lay exposed and naked while Zayn perched on his knees and looked him over. Harry's cock was cut and thick, already wet at the tip, and Zayn couldn't stop himself, couldn't even undress. He quickly spread Harry's legs and got between them, leaned down with his hands on Harry's stomach and hips, and without any warning, took Harry into his mouth.  
  
Harry gasped, Zayn could feel his abs tensing under his palms, as he sank lower. Harry made shameless noises as Zayn sucked him off, as his cock hit the back of Zayn's throat. Zayn listened for those delicious sounds, like he was in high school, when he'd listen so hard, so intently during class, teachers used to think he was angry or didn't understand the lesson, his face intense and set.  
  
Zayn sped up, moved his tongue on the underside of Harry's dick, moved it from side to side as he moved his head down. He couldn't stop, his breath coming out in harsh spurts through his nose. Harry grabbed at his hair, grabbed at the back of his head, and Zayn couldn't tell if he wanted him to speed up, or stop, or hold up for a second. So Zayn slowly slipped off and sat up, Harry panting on the bed.  
  
"You wanna come in my mouth?" he huffed out, breathing hard.  
  
"Fuck," Harry groaned, as Zayn smiled.  
  
Zayn didn't waste any time, wouldn't make Harry wait another fucking second. He grabbed him with his right hand, pumped a few times, before licking at the head and sinking back down. He gripped at Harry's thighs, his nails digging into his skin as he sucked, as he bobbed up and down, as he relaxed his jaw.  
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Harry hissed, abs tensing again, legs moving on either side of Zayn's body.  
  
Zayn scratched his way up Harry's thighs, over his hips, his waist, his torso, until he finally reached Harry's chest. He ran his thumbs over Harry's nipples, his puffy nipples Zayn couldn't wait to get his mouth around, as Harry gasped one last time and shot come down his throat.  
  
Zayn did that thing where he moaned loudly, obscenely, so Harry would feel it in his fucking bones, as he came in his mouth. Zayn moaned again, and again, as Harry's body jolted, as he came down. Zayn slipped him out of his mouth right as Harry grabbed his hair to stop him.  
  
"Holy shit," Harry whispered, his chest heaving, eyes closed.  
  
Zayn swallowed, let himself taste Harry, tart and sweet. He wiped his mouth and assessed the situation. He didn't know if this was it, if he should finish himself, his cock aching against his zipper. He was about to look up and ask Harry with his eyes, when he felt Harry shifting.  
  
Harry sat up on the bed and held Zayn by the shoulders, as Zayn looked up at him. Harry pulled him up by the hips, telling Zayn to stand up in front of him, so Zayn did. Now Harry looked up at him, cheeks flushed, those beautiful pink lips shiny and wet. Harry reached for his sweater, ran his fingers underneath it, pushing it until Zayn lifted it off and tossed it to the couch.  
  
Zayn watched Harry, watched Harry slowly bring his gaze down to his navel, to the tattoos on his hips, as he ran his fingers along his ribs, his waist. Harry slowly undid his belt, so slowly Zayn almost slapped his hand away to do it himself, his cock aching harder than ever. Harry undid the button, the zipper, pulled his briefs down just enough to lift Zayn's cock out, to pull him off, looking back up to his face.  
  
"What do you want?" Harry whispered, looking him in the eye, fingers curled around Zayn, pumping his hand.  
  
"What do _you_ want?" Zayn said, almost groaning, holding it in.  
  
"You want to come on my face? You want me to suck you off? Use my hand? You want to fuck me?"  
  
Zayn had to shake his head, his thoughts jumbled.  
  
"I… I don't know… I don't know, whatever you want," he said in a rush, head still shaking.  
  
Harry gripped him harder, forced Zayn to look at him again.  
  
"What do you _want_ , Zayn?"  
  
"Whatever you want, just whatever," Zayn said, finally groaning, not knowing, as Harry sped his hand up.  
  
Harry looked at him intensely. Zayn couldn't think, couldn't concentrate on anything other than Harry's hand, and his face, and the shitty apartment that felt like home, the single lamp in the corner sending shadows across them, the honking outside swirling around them.  
  
Finally, Harry let him go. Zayn was embarrassed, but he couldn't help the whine that escaped his lips.  
  
Harry tugged at his jeans and briefs, shoved them down Zayn's legs and moved back on the bed, up towards the headboard. Zayn quickly kicked his clothes all the way off and crawled up after him, not knowing where they were going again, just knowing they were speeding towards something they couldn't see. By the time he reached him, by the time he settled on top of Harry, Harry had already grabbed the bottle of lube and a condom from the side table.  
  
He settled between his legs, looked down at Harry's body, his chest heaving, before bringing his face back up to Harry's face. Harry shoved the lube into Zayn's hand and looked at him.  
  
Zayn couldn't move fast enough then, couldn't slick up his fingers any faster if he tried, before reaching down. He ran a finger lightly over Harry, over the entrance he wanted to know on a deep, spiritual level. He opened Harry up with one finger first, his face against Harry's chest, as Harry moved under him. Once he worked him up to two fingers, once he curled them up, Harry was a mess. He pulled Zayn's face up so he could kiss him, could bite his lip, before moving to Zayn's neck, his ear, biting and biting, hard.  
  
Zayn wanted to be marked for days, wanted to return the favor, so he bit the muscle between Harry's neck and shoulder, as he added a third finger, as Harry clenched around his hand, as Harry grunted again and again, this guttural sound Zayn wanted to hear every fucking day for the rest of his life.  
  
He felt like he was about to combust, he couldn't wait any longer. He slowly slid his fingers out of Harry and grabbed for the condom. His fingers wouldn't work right, his hand slipped, he was all over the place. Harry graciously reached for him and tore it open, slid it onto Zayn, before kissing him again. Harry was wet with lube, ready and waiting, and Zayn only took one second to appreciate it, to take it in again. Harry smiled, nodded.  
  
Zayn eased into him slowly, with care, as he bit lightly at Harry's bottom lip, his pink mouth wet against his.  
  
"Fuck, fuck that's good," Harry groaned, as Zayn released his lip, as he bottomed out.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I've thought about this from the first fucking second I saw you, I swear. I almost dropped to my knees in that elevator," Harry said between breaths, as he relaxed his body, got used to the stretch.  
  
"Yeah?" Zayn grunted, as he sat back to get better leverage, as he started to move his hips.  
  
"Do it how you wanna do it," Harry whispered, closing his eyes, grabbing at Zayn's arms.  
  
Zayn wanted to fucking ruin Harry, wanted to fuck him so hard, he'd walk on unsteady feet for three days. So he did just that. He grabbed Harry's legs and spread them wider, held him open by the backs of his knees, and slammed into him. Harry wanted it, wanted what Zayn wanted, so he pushed back, gripped his arms tighter.  
  
Harry came a second time out of nowhere, across his stomach, untouched. His entire body was shaking, as he coated himself with a few weak strings of white come. That did it for Zayn, that's what did it, the fact that he made Harry come again, like that, tonight, in this apartment, on this bed.  
  
Zayn groaned and came hard, so hard he saw stars. He came and came, Harry clenching around him, probably sensitive and aching by that point, but pushing back anyways.  
  
And when Zayn slipped out of him and slumped beside him on the bed, Harry took care of him, disposed of the condom, cleaned them up. Harry was so tender afterwards, kissed his mouth, his cheek, his forehead. He curled himself around Zayn and clung to him like a fucking dryer sheet. They were stuck together like static. Zayn couldn't even open his eyes, couldn't look at Harry, afraid of what he'd say. He didn't want to give anything away yet, didn't want to scare Harry.  
  
Harry was the one to speak first, in true Harry fashion.  
  
"Rest up, babe," he said into Zayn's neck, before leaning over to shut off the lamp. "Round two at dawn."  
  
Zayn smiled into Harry's hair.

  
  
***

  
If they had been smarter, they would've realized that by going fast, by revving into overdrive in the fast lane to speed towards something they couldn't see, things would inevitably slip through the cracks. The things people talk about on third dates, the things people write in emails and discuss over text while at work, the things you happen to throw out when getting drinks at a bar as you slowly get to know each other, those things can get lost, shuffled around, forgotten by accident.  
  
By their first month anniversary, after they had slept together almost every night since the first time, Zayn had his own key to Harry's apartment, had a bottle of shampoo in Harry's shower. Harry had half a drawer at Zayn's place, had a favorite knife in Zayn's kitchen, a knife Zayn didn't even know he had, a knife that sliced perfectly through the steaks Harry's coworker gave him for the occasion.  
  
They didn't discuss their future plans, what each of them wanted out of life. Harry forgot to mention to Zayn that he didn't plan on having any sort of family, didn't really need or want one. Zayn forgot to tell Harry about the two kids he wanted, the house he wanted up north, the reasons why. They didn't talk about their styles or their particular likes or dislikes. Harry didn't notice how harsh Zayn's movements were, didn't realize Zayn could get angry easily. Zayn didn't notice that Harry liked to push him into situations, liked to get his way when he wanted something.  
  
Neither of them noticed that Harry was always asking Zayn to do something, always asking what Zayn wanted, what he wanted for dinner or how he'd like to fuck Harry on any given night. They didn't notice how Zayn rarely gave a definitive answer, rarely had a care either way when Harry asked a question, when Harry asked anything of him, because Zayn can relax, can sit.  
  
They didn't notice that as they came together, as they came in each others' mouths night after night, month after month, that their ideals and wishes became more and more perpendicular, instead of parallel.  
  
Harry forgot to notice things and Zayn forgot to say anything.

  
  
***

  
Zayn had a problem with the kitchen, as he very honestly told Harry that morning. As Harry went outside to grab more boxes, Zayn couldn't stop himself from venturing back in there to look around.  
  
It was too grey, too new, too modern. Zayn didn't like modern. He liked classic, old, antiqued things. He wished whoever lived here before them, whoever owned the building, had left well enough alone and kept the old kitchen. He thinks then, as he runs his hand along the slate counter top, that the old shitty wooden counter top probably had a great story, some ridges, some scuff marks. He's also a little proud of himself, for the point he proved earlier with Harry, by shoving him against the harsh edge of it, digging his ass into it, showing him they'd never be able to fuck against it like they had in their old apartments.  
  
He also thought, as he looked at the brand new fridge with the ice maker in the door, that the old fridge probably had a broken light bulb, probably had to be wrenched open with a firm hand, the firm hand Zayn's always had.  
  
He sighed as he turned around in a circle, as he looked at the out-of-place kitchen in an otherwise amazing loft. He had asked Harry, before they began to look for a place together, if they could just live in Harry's apartment together, the one with the shitty elevator where they met, but Harry practically fell over at the suggestion.  
  
Harry needed something bigger, something brighter, after he got his first promotion and started to make more money. So Zayn shrugged and pulled up Craigslist to look at postings, Harry smiling and tucking his feet under Zayn's thigh.  
  
Just then Harry walked in with a box, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, huffing just from the short walk from the elevator. The windows were open, but it was still warm in the loft, too warm. Zayn vaguely wondered if the summers were going to be terrible.  
  
"What do we want to unpack first?" Harry asked him, as he shoved his hair off his forehead.  
  
"Up to you, doesn't matter," Zayn leaned against the counter, looking at him with an easy expression.  
  
"Bedroom?"  
  
"Okay," Zayn said, pushing away from the counter and walking around Harry, his fingers lightly running against his palm as he made his way across the wood floor towards the boxes by the hallway.  
  
Harry started to follow him, grabbed a box even, the box labeled MUSIC, before Zayn held his hand out to stop him.  
  
"What are you doing?" Zayn asked honestly, face contorted slightly, incredulous that Harry's first thought would be his record collection.  
  
"I just grabbed a box. What?" Harry shrugged.  
  
"Grab one with your clothes, the music stays in here," Zayn said with a small chuckle.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Harry's tone seemed off, combative, defensive.  
  
"Why would your record collection go in the bedroom?"  
  
"Why not? I like to listen to music when I read before bed, or if I'm in there changing," Harry said, rolling his eyes.  
  
"No," Zayn shook his head. "It should stay in the living room. No music or TV in the bedroom, that's stupid."  
  
Zayn didn't normally go against something Harry said he wanted, something he insisted on, something he found to be essential. And he especially didn't say anything Harry did or thought was stupid. Harry was so taken aback, he had to set the box down.  
  
"I want it in the bedroom," Harry said, voice level.  
  
"No," Zayn said back, harder.  
  
They stared at each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up. They'd fought for real before, small arguments here or there after their initial first "fight," and only once in the elevator before they moved into the loft, but it'd never been like this, insistent, an almost silent anger. Zayn also thought, quietly, in the farthest corner of his mind, that he couldn't let his dad be right, couldn't let what he said at dinner a few weeks back come true, about fighting for all the little things, because you have to fight for all of it. That was Yaser's major point: love and relationships are a fight.  
  
Maybe Harry looked at him and thought about that dinner, too.  
  
Because when Zayn looked at Harry, he could tell that he won this one, that the record player would end up in the living room whether Harry liked it or not, either by force, or by Zayn moving it while Harry was at work anyways. Yaser and Trisha said everything turned into a fight, and it seemed as though Zayn and Harry both wanted to prove them wrong. Not every little thing had to be an issue. Love is compromise. You compromise constantly, when you love someone enough.  
  
So Zayn saw Harry give in, saw the defeat on his face. This wasn't like the elevator fight, wasn't like with the table or the clock, when Harry got his way. He shoved the box over slightly with his foot, towards the exposed brick wall where the TV and entertainment system would go. Zayn's shoulders relaxed, his body unclenched, as he smiled and turned towards the hall to their bedroom.  
  
He didn't see Harry frown. He just sensed Harry following him with a box of clothes.  
  
He also didn't see the small look of triumph on Harry's face later that afternoon, down by their cars, when Zayn got out his favorite armchair, the old ratty brown one he bought a few years ago second hand. The seat dipped just right, it could sit comfortably next to the wall of windows. Zayn could picture himself sitting in it, reading a book, on mornings he made coffee early, before working at whatever job he happened to have at the moment.  
  
But Harry told him the chair didn't fit with the apartment, not after the new pieces of furniture he had already ordered were set to arrive the next day. It would look out of place, weird, next to the new stuff. Harry had money now, money he could spend on nice furniture and couches, on new chairs with sleek lines and curved legs.  
  
Zayn usually did what Harry asked of him, when Harry really meant it, so Zayn left it by the dumpster on the corner, next to a homeless guy eating fried chicken out of a bucket. The guy nodded at Zayn as Zayn walked back towards Harry, Zayn nodded back, and that was that.  
  
They didn't have a disagreement once that day.

  
  
***

  
Harry's first promotion came on their sixth month anniversary. Harry remembered they both landed on the same day, when he looked back on it all, because he woke up and made Zayn breakfast in bed, pancakes and eggs, to celebrate their special occasion, before going to work and getting called into his editor's office. Murphy basically told him he showed promise, insight, "moxie," which Harry quickly decided was his favorite word. He was going to be a junior editor, with his own desk, not in reception answering phones, but reading manuscripts and assisting the real editors, the real bosses who decide what gets printed.  
  
Harry showed promise, had insight, was bursting with moxie, after only six months with the publisher. He couldn't even contain himself, so he ran all the way home once the clock hit five.  
  
That's what he said to Zayn as he burst into his apartment, completely out of breath.  
  
"Moxie, Zayn!" he hollered, as he jumped onto Zayn's lap, as he sat on the couch in Harry's tiny living room.  
  
"What?" Zayn chuckled, moving his almost broken laptop away from himself, lest Harry break it clean in half once and for all.  
  
"Moxie! I have moxie!" Harry yelled, as he grabbed Zayn's shoulders and leaned back, face towards the ceiling, smiling.  
  
"Are you having a stroke?"  
  
Harry looked down at him and smiled.  
  
"I got a _promotion_ , babe. I have my own desk. And my own extension. I have a work number! I have a number, and I have cool bosses, and I have _moxie_ , Zayn!"  
  
Zayn laughed and grabbed him around his hips, squeezed tight, squeezed like he did when he got excited over something and had to transfer the energy to Harry. He held him like glass, because Harry was like glass, precious and beautiful and so fucking important to him, he couldn't let go.  
  
"That's amazing," Zayn said, leaning up to kiss him, to catch Harry's pink lip in his teeth.  
  
"It's all happening, you know? This is right," Harry said between kisses, holding Zayn's ears, his favorite body part. "I'll be making so much more money. More money than I've ever made before, Zayn. I can go grocery shopping and not freak out! I can buy a new mattress!"  
  
Zayn smiled and looked over at Harry's lumpy mattress, the mattress he's actually come to love, the mattress Harry loathes.  
  
"I'm proud of you."  
  
"I'm proud of me, too," Harry said, cheeks flushed.  
  
Harry knew Zayn was always proud of him, is the thing. Zayn was proud when he toasted their toast just right, when he could run down a flight of stairs without tripping, when he gave his leftovers to the homeless guy on the corner and asked about his day. Zayn would be proud if Harry did anything, really. And that, more than anything, is what made Harry slip off Zayn's lap, to his knees between Zayn's legs, and undo his jeans.

  
  
***

  
Zayn always told himself they didn't fight, not really. Couples who fight are the worst, the kinds of couples who end up divorced and bitter, or worse yet, still married and bitter like his parents. Couples who fight are mean and vindictive, Zayn thought, overly emotional and all wrong for each other.  
  
Zayn had never felt more right in his life, since he met Harry, since they kissed in a lobby next to a plant that smelled like piss. So when Harry annoyed him, or said something to him that made him frown, he brushed it off and let it go. He didn't dwell on it, didn't let himself think like Yaser, didn't give Harry anything back. It wouldn't have been right to.  
  
But sometimes when he would ride his bike to work, where he still worked at the small courier company not far from the new loft, he thought about the little things, the things he should've said to Harry when they were in the heat of it. He could've let the motorcycle drown out his thoughts, he was so used to the hum of it, the exhaust rumbling from behind him loud enough to keep his frowning at bay. Some days he couldn't help it, the thoughts swirling in his head, of things he should've reminded Harry of when Harry forgot them.  
  
Because sometimes Harry forgot _him_ , forgot to see him, forgot to remember him. He forgot to bring Zayn breakfast when he went to the corner bakery some mornings, forgot Zayn was even home when he waltzed in with coffee and a muffin for himself. He forgot that Zayn hated when he left towels on the bathroom floor, right there in front of the sink, when he could just as easily thrown them over the shower rod. He played The Cure from his record player in the living room, even though Zayn said it made his head hurt. He played it loud, over and over, even when Zayn left and not so subtly slammed the door behind him.  
  
Harry forgot their small disagreements, even when he shouldn't, even when he should apologize to Zayn. He forgot the things Zayn reminded him to do, to grab from the grocery store, forgot to ask for days off so they could spend them together in the park.  
  
He knew Zayn had a weekly phone call with his mother on Sunday nights to tell her he was alive and fine, simple phone calls that never held much weight or love at all. Harry knew Zayn liked to hold his hand during those calls, liked Harry to rub his feet, to get the tension out, while he listened to his parents bicker on the other end. And lately Harry had forgotten, had gone into work even when he didn't have to.  
  
Sometimes he forgot to ask Zayn about his day. Once he even told Zayn he doesn't forget, so much as he just "doesn't need to remember," because Zayn's day doesn't "deviate or change often."  
  
So the day Zayn met Niall Horan, the new guy at work, from a location in Queens, the day Niall walked in and shook his hand, Harry didn't know.  
  
Because Harry didn't ask.

  
  
***

  
Harry will never forget the first time Zayn threw him for a loop, finally, after four months of being together. Because Harry was the one to push Zayn, the one telling him what to do, where to go. Harry set the pace. After the first time they slept together and Harry had to literally shove Zayn's jeans to his ankles to get him to make a fucking decision, Harry had done it ever since.  
  
So Harry was always very determined to not be the one to say _I love you_ first. If Zayn loved him, if they were going to love each other the right away, as adults, as mature men in a mature relationship, Harry was going to be damn sure it's what Zayn wanted and on Zayn's time.  
  
If Zayn loved him, if he wanted Harry to love him back, he needed to fucking do something about it.  
  
More often than not, Harry can call it like he sees it. He went to college, he's a pretty smart guy. So once they'd been dating a few months and Zayn still hadn't said it, he figured it would eventually slip out of Zayn's mouth when they were making dinner, or sitting on the front steps of the building smoking cigarettes, or while they took the subway uptown. He knew Zayn loved him, knew it in the depths of his soul, and figured Zayn just couldn't say it just yet, needed the perfect throwaway moment so it wouldn't be some big thing. Zayn hated "big things."  
  
Harry was wrong, which Zayn laughed about for weeks afterward.  
  
Harry had been stressed about work. He was still answering phones at the reception desk, not feeling useful or productive at all, and it started to stress him out. He tried offering help to the editors, did extra tasks around the office to get Murphy to notice him, all of it. But nothing was working. He was still poor and pissed about it, broke and depressed over the fact that he still didn't have a nice place, nice things. So for weeks, he came home to his place to find Zayn in the shower, or in his bed, and he'd throw himself towards Zayn to get the kinks out of his back. And because Zayn knew him, knew him so fucking well, Zayn eventually did something about it to take his mind off of things.  
  
Harry came home after work one evening to see a little black box and a card on his bed, the bed Zayn had made for him because Zayn is ridiculous and makes the bed every day. Harry set his shit down and eagerly grabbed for the card, a simple note written in Zayn's chicken scratch handwriting.  
  
 _Take a long shower. Relax. Open the box, you'll know what to do. Wear your black jeans and that shirt I like. Meet me at Rudy's Pub at 8._  
  
Harry smiled in excitement. Zayn had never done anything like this before, never given Harry a true present that wasn't a blow job or a DVD or a piece of pie from his boss's wife. He almost bounced up and down, he was so happy.  
  
So Harry followed Zayn's instructions. He took a good, long shower. He let the water run over him and soothe his back, washed himself thoroughly. He, pretty embarrassingly, ran back into the main room to his bed to open the box, bare ass naked, he couldn't stop himself. He ripped off the black bow on top, ripped the black wrapping paper, and lifted the lid.  
  
Inside, Harry was astonished to find, was a little black egg. He held it in his palm, the round rubber egg he knew damn well was for him. When he glanced back in the box, he almost laughed. Under the egg, Zayn left him a new bottle of lube.  
  
Harry's hands wouldn't stop shaking that night, as he prepped himself, as he opened himself up with his fingers right there on his made bed. He wanted to be stretched enough for the little egg, for the present Zayn so sweetly got for him, the present from _Zayn Malik_ of all people. When he slipped it inside of himself, he exhaled as it settled right against his prostate, the thin rubber strap out just enough for him to pull on later to remove it. He had to lay on the bed a few extra minutes, to get used to it, to actually wrap his head around the fact that it was happening, that he was going to go out in public with a fucking sex toy up his ass.  
  
That Zayn Malik sure knows how to treat a guy.  
  
It took him even longer to get dressed, to snap a pair of briefs against his ass, to bend over to grab his jeans. The egg kept shifting, kept rubbing against his prostate, his hole not used to the prolonged intrusion. Harry had to hold a hand against himself in the elevator, his cock fattening up at the mere thought of what he was doing. He had a smile on his face the entire ride to Rudy's, gasping with every bump, in the cab he couldn't even afford, too scared to venture onto a crowded subway car. He briefly thought about someone rubbing up against him on accident, and coming right there in his jeans.  
  
When he finally, mercifully got to Rudy's he walked in with a flush on his face, a line of sweat dripping down his back. He felt like a fucking animal in heat, so ready for whatever Zayn wanted. When he spotted Zayn standing at the bar, the yells and laughs of the people around him drowning out his thoughts, Zayn had a wicked smile on his face, as he lifted a beer to his lips.  
  
Harry worked his way around the strangers around him, the people shuffling him back and forth, as the egg continued its relentless nudging.  
  
"Hey babe," Zayn whispered in his ear, before kissing him on the cheek, as Harry finally settled next to him.  
  
Harry stood there, let Zayn look at him, his cheeks, his sweaty forehead, his blown irises.  
  
"How was your day?" Zayn asked sweetly, grabbing for his hand, moving a beer towards Harry.  
  
Harry felt very unprepared for this, the casual conversation like nothing was happening, like the present in his ass didn't exist. But this was Zayn's night, Zayn was pushing him this time, and he fucking needed it.  
  
"It was good," he said in a rush, scratching at his neck, grabbing for his beer. "It was good."  
  
"That's so good," Zayn nodded.  
  
"Yeah," Harry nodded back, still sweating.  
  
"Tell me about it," Zayn stared him down, serious expression on his face, not letting up.  
  
Harry had to take a breath then. It was like the egg had a mind of its own and was laughing at him, as it shifted when he stepped closer to Zayn. He was just about to speak, when he felt it.  
  
The vibration practically ripped through him, practically tore his fucking lungs out of his body. It surged from his ass all the way to his fucking toes, to the tips of his hair, over and over, like a wave.  
  
Harry's entire body was shaking, as he looked up at Zayn's face, into Zayn's blackened eyes. Zayn smirked, he couldn't help it, his hand on the tiny remote control in his jacket pocket, _only turned up to a three at the moment, poor Harry._  
  
Harry had never seen this side before, this dark side of Zayn, and he almost fucking died right there, if you want the truth. He also briefly wondered if the people around them could hear the vibrations, could hear the little motor in his ass, sending wave after wave right through him. This must've been why Zayn chose Rudy's, busy and crowded Rudy's.  
  
But all Harry could do was stare at him. Zayn's eyes said _I asked you a question, Harry._  
  
"My day was good," Harry croaked out, now fully leaning against Zayn's side, hand on Zayn's shoulder. "I… I talked to my boss about reading a… manuscript or two. See if my instincts are good, you know?"  
  
Zayn just nodded, a nod that told Harry to continue.  
  
 _Now at a five._  
  
"I just… I just. I had a good day. A good afternoon," Harry said, resting his head against Zayn's temple, sweating and breathing like a fucking marathon runner, the vibrations getting steadily more intense the longer they stand there. _A seven now,_ Zayn thinks.  
  
"That's good, Hazza. I'm glad it was good. You've seemed so stressed lately," Zayn said in a low voice, near Harry's ear.  
  
"Yeah, yeah I've been stressed, you're right," Harry panted out.  
  
Harry really fucking hoped no one was looking at him, could see how much of a mess he was. It was like the vibrations were going to ripple for eternity, sending shock waves to his finger tips, to the head of his cock, for the rest of his life. Zayn wasn't stopping, he kept turning it up.  
  
Eventually Harry felt the biggest shock of all, as the vibrations got stronger, as his entire body lurched forward against Zayn. He couldn't stop, he was going to fucking lose it, his cock straining against his jeans, his entire body on fire. _All the way to nine._  
  
"Drink your beer, Haz," Zayn directed him, shoving at him slightly, shoving him off his body.  
  
Harry looked at him, eyes crazy, face contorted. Zayn honestly wanted him to pretend like he was fine, like he could do something as simple as drink a beer at a time like this.  
  
"Drink your beer and we'll go home," Zayn smiled sweetly, bringing his bottle up to his lips.  
  
Harry could barely stand, let alone work his appendages, so it was with some difficulty that he reached out for the bottle. His arm vibrated like the rest of his body, as he brought it to his lips and sucked down as much shitty beer as he could. He wanted it to be over, this whole exchange. He wanted to go home and have Zayn fuck his brains out, he wanted to come, twice, he wanted wanted wanted.  
  
Zayn smiled at him again as he drank his own beer.  
  
"I'm done, I'm done, let's go," Harry panted, grabbing Zayn's arm.  
  
"No you're not, you still have half a beer left," Zayn shook his head.  
  
Harry really, truly groaned at that. It was like his body couldn't hold it in, the pleasure, the frustration, the anger at not getting what he wanted yet. He hated waiting for anything, let alone an orgasm. So he grabbed for the bottle again, his movements becoming more frantic, more crazed. He sucked the bottle as hard as he could, drank as fast as his throat would allow, until he slammed it on the bar, breathing even heavier through his mouth.  
  
Zayn's eyes flicked down to his wet lips, as Harry licked them, and _finally_ grabbed Harry's hand and guided him towards the door. In the cab, Zayn graciously kept a hand on Harry's hard dick, held him in his jeans, held him off until they could get home. Every time the cab jumped, every corner they turned, Harry threw his head back against the seat and groaned, as the egg practically pounded against his poor prostate. The driver must've thought he was going to be sick, so he mercifully went fast.  
  
Zayn told Harry he loved him that night, after he undressed Harry, after he turned off the egg and slowly slid it out of him. He got on top of Harry and slid right into him, all open and wet already, right there on top of the blankets. Harry's body was already so needy and flushed, it took no time at all for Harry to come across his chest, eyes shut, voice nothing but a low whisper.  
  
Zayn told Harry he loved him right before he came inside him, right before he made a mess of Harry, after a night of teasing. He said I love you, and Harry said I love you, as they both looked at the come on Harry's chest, as they felt the come dripping out of Harry, around Zayn's cock. They said it right after the other, in a moment of pure and utter pleasure, and it was so fucking perfect, so good. Zayn thought it then, _we are so good._  
  
He told Harry the next day he got him the present, did the whole bar schtick, to take Harry's mind off of money, and his job, and all the things he thought he needed right then, right now. He did it to give Harry a break, to show Harry he can be spontaneous too. And he told Harry he loved him right in the middle of sex, because Harry Styles is ridiculous, and would expect it to be over the dishes or on the subway.  
  
Harry smiled into Zayn's neck, because Zayn was absolutely right, like always.

  
  
***

  
Harry had to prepare himself for the fight, had to psych himself up the one thing they always said they'd never do. They always said they'd never drag it out and fight like Maliks, like people who hated each other. But Harry thinks it then, as he paced the loft, as Elvis sings the blues around him, that more often than not, lately it seems like the line between love and hate is so thin, he can barely see it.  
  
While he paced, he thought about Zayn smiling at that guy, the guy with the blue eyes just one shade away from his own green, the guy who made Zayn laugh and smile and hold his coffee cup tighter, made Zayn look the way Harry used to make him look.  
  
So when Zayn came back twenty minutes later, twenty agonizing minutes later, Harry rounded on him instantly, got right in his face before he could even shut the door.  
  
"Are you kidding me?"  
  
"Don't even start," Zayn said, a hand held up between them, warning Harry.  
  
"Are you fucking him? Are you fucking some blond guy? Are you?"  
  
"Get a fucking grip, Harry," Zayn said, walking around him, away from the front door, tossing his keys over his shoulder into the ceramic bowl.  
  
The keys made that sound, the sound Harry hates, the sound that makes him grind his teeth even on good days.  
  
"You wanna be with him, Zayn? You wanna have a baby with him? Tell me, tell me all about how you want to start your _real_ fucking life, with him. Tell me," Harry yelled, as Zayn continued past him, as he ventured further into the loft.  
  
"Stop," Zayn warned again, once he was by the kitchen, angry, turning to Harry.  
  
"Tell me," Harry bellowed, stomping his foot like a child.  
  
Zayn stared at him, at the Harry he didn't even know anymore. Harry stared at the Zayn he knew like the back of his fucking hand, the same Zayn he's known since the day they met.  
  
And when Zayn rolled his eyes, at "irrational Harry," at his "crazy Harry," Harry lost it.  
  
He grabbed the ceramic bowl by the door, the bowl holding Zayn's keys, and he chucked it at the brick wall by the TV. He threw it so hard, it shattered into a thousand pieces.  
  
They both stared at the pieces, at them scattered across the floor, for a very long time.

 


	3. Chapter 3

   
 _Now._

 

  
  
It occurs to Harry as the loft gets darker that he'll have to tell his mom about the fight, the last battle, the broken bowl from by the door and the things they said, the way Harry yelled until he was hoarse, the way Zayn's hands couldn't stop shaking. He'll have to tell her about the slow deterioration of the one thing he always thought would last, the one thing that was supposed to.  
  
It occurs to Zayn as the loft gets darker that he'll never be able to tell his parents about the fight, the last battle, the last shreds of who they were, the way he pulled at his hair so hard he's surprised it's not falling out, the way he yelled back at Harry until his lungs gave out, the way Harry's body snapped at the end as he gave up and sat down. He'll never be able to tell them about the way they crumbled, day after day, because he'll never give his father the satisfaction of seeing him miserable.  
  
It's done. And as Harry sets his mug on the table by the couch, Zayn knows they're finally about to move. He's glad Harry went first, glad Harry saved him from having to.  
  
Zayn looks at the mug on the table, the table with the coasters Harry insisted on buying.  
  
"Do you remember when you bought that table?" Zayn says, quiet, voice practically gone.  
  
Harry looks up at him, eyes wide. The elevator.  
  
"Yeah, I remember," he says in a low voice, as he brings his hands to his lap.  
  
"We were headed for that little flea market, the one I wanted to go to by your old apartment, but you pulled me into the store across the street instead. You wanted to see the lamps. And we left with that table."  
  
"I remember."  
  
"I hated it."  
  
"I know," Harry nods, still quiet.  
  
"I hated it, and you bought it anyway. And when I bought the painting for over the bed, you hated it."  
  
"I know."  
  
"We never hate the same things," Zayn says, voice shaking slightly.  
  
"We hated some of the same things," Harry says back, eyes empty. "But we could never let anything go. You still hate this table and I still hate that painting."  
  
Zayn nods, sits forward so he can cross his hands and look at his feet. He's exhausted.  
  
Harry sniffs, won't let himself cry, so he sits back against the couch and looks at his dirty feet.  
  
Their problems were never about tables or paintings. They didn't stem from record players and chairs, or clocks, or ceramic bowls, or any other thing they shared and loathed. Those were just the easiest things to point to, real, tangible things they could throw in each others' faces.  
  
They were perpendicular people, never parallel.  
  
"I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you wanted," Harry whispers. "I wish I could, but I can't. I can't have a family, not now, or soon. I won't be ready for a long time, Zayn, if ever."  
  
"I'm sorry I couldn't change the way you wanted me to," Zayn whispers, looking up at him. "I know you want me to change with you and move the way you want, alongside you, but I can't. I want what I want, just like you do. We both want too much."  
  
Harry looks down.  
  
"We never love the same things either," Harry whispers, chin shaking.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Love isn't supposed to be a fight, Zayn. It's not supposed to be like this."  
  
"I know," Zayn says, a tear threatening to fall. "And I just can't end up there, with us fighting and hating each other, day after day. I can't end up like my dad said."  
  
"Me either."  
  
They stare at each other again, across their shared space, the space they wanted at one time, when their minds were more open and their hearts were a little more forgiving.  
  
"I loved you so much."  
  
"I loved you, too."

  
  
***

  
  
_Then._

  
  
Harry always told himself they didn't fight, not really. Couples who fight are the worst, the kinds of couples who hurt each other for attention, to win the war, to have an upper hand because it suits their needs. Couples who fight are selfish and lazy, too lazy to come up with solutions, to come up with answers to their problems, instead just festering on them until they eat them from the inside out.  
  
Harry never felt that with Zayn, not deep down. Because even when they started out, before they moved in together, if there was ever a heated discussion, a talk that looked like it was going to turn into something more, something mean, they never let it get far. Zayn told him he couldn't fight, not like his parents did. And after Harry went to that dinner and heard Yaser, saw Trisha, he didn't want to fight either. They only had one fight before the loft, just one, in the old elevator of his old building, but even then, they didn't let it ruin them. They still moved to the loft.  
  
But sometimes when he was at work, Harry would think about Zayn and what Zayn did all day. He would picture Zayn on his bike, riding all over Manhattan delivering packages and envelopes, timely boxes for companies who needed him to be fast and efficient. Zayn went to work every day on his motorcycle, just to hop back on it with a clipboard ten minutes later. He spent his days riding, walking up flights of stairs, walking down flights of stairs, and doing it all over again. It was repetitive. The same. Unfulfilling.  
  
Harry's not a snob, hardly. He grew up with barely enough change in his pocket for a carton of milk. But he learned early on to support himself, to strive for true greatness, to expect things from himself when no one else did. One of the shitty jobs his mom worked was for the payroll department of a small college in the city, so he got a massive discount to attend. Without it, he'd be drowning in debt, or would've never gone at all. Harry wonders why Zayn never went to college, never tried, never soared. Zayn was content working a job that gave him nothing, gave the world nothing, and Harry never understood why. Zayn was bright, smart as hell, quick.  
  
Whenever Harry mentioned it, Zayn reminded him that work doesn't have to be the only thing a person values in life, that he told Harry his views on work and family, his views on how he saw the rest of his life, that night in bed a few months before they moved in together.  
  
Harry tended to forget things, so.  
  
Zayn wasn't lazy. But he wasn't fast. His movements were harsh, steady, he could put a hole into a wall if he wasn't careful when hanging up clocks. But if Harry didn't make them dinner, if he didn't force Zayn to decide what he wanted to do every Saturday, they would've just sat around and watched movies constantly. Zayn didn't do it on purpose, he just needed Harry to remind him.  
  
In the beginning, when Harry had just gotten his job and didn't have a ton of money, Zayn took care of him, bought him dinner. And when Harry returned the favor, when he got his promotion, when he bought the furniture for the loft, Zayn frowned. Because apparently Harry wanted to spend too much, wanted to be big and loud in the city, and "forgot to take Zayn's views into account," which was bullshit.  
  
Harry found himself getting busier at work, found himself venturing into the office even on days when he didn't have to. He was hell bent on saving the world with the written word. He found himself wanting to be out of the loft more than in it, as their small arguments started to build. The little things built up, after they moved in together. They would find small ways to get at each other, first with Harry playing his Cure albums just because he likes them, and then Zayn slamming the door when he left, or tossing his keys into that ceramic fucking bowl as loud as he could. He even came back one day with a massive painting for over their bed, a painting Harry hated more every time he looked at it, the colors all wrong, not fitting the space at all. Zayn left it up, even when he saw Harry eyeing it with disgust.  
  
Something was happening, they both could feel it. The night in the elevator last month was good, but it didn't fix anything.  
  
Sometimes Zayn forgot to tell Harry what he wanted, what he really wanted. Once he even told Harry it's not that he doesn't want anything, he just "wants a lot" and he's "willing to wait for it, unlike Harry."  
  
So the day Harry started asking his boss for more responsibilities, to angle himself for another promotion which would then lead to hopefully another promotion with the option to travel and see the world, Zayn didn't know.  
  
Because Zayn didn't ask.

  
  
***

  
  
Zayn knew things would change once they lived together. Any idiot could tell you that, moving in together being a huge step. It didn't matter that for the entire time they knew each other they were connected at the hip, in each others' beds almost every night, laughing, loving, fucking, over and over for that almost-year before they moved into the loft. The second a lease is signed, the very second it's official and in stone, the fact that two people are cohabitating, buying groceries together, paying the cable bill equally, something changes.  
  
Zayn knew their honeymoon period of a year, the beautiful year they spent before the loft that only consisted of one fight, the fight in the elevator after the furniture store, would eventually end and they'd settle into real life. He figured they'd still be happy, though. The unhappiness, the weariness of worrying for each other, the disdain they felt after months of living together, Zayn didn't anticipate any of that at all.  
  
They weren't the same, the longer they moved around the loft, the longer they settled in. Harry was, as Harry liked to say, "evolving." He was moving up at his job, still angling for a second promotion, meeting people in the publishing world. Zayn was the same as ever, same old Zayn Malik, moving around the city on his motorcycle, making money to pay his bills, making enough money to try and make Harry happy. Zayn's world, it seemed, revolved around Harry and his happiness, his Harry, if Harry needed anything. It was _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ how they were going to spend their next anniversary, where they would buy a house someday, if Zayn would ever be able to afford a ring for him.  
  
So the day Niall Horan walked in and shook his hand at their main office, the new guy from Queens, Zayn didn't think anything of it, because Zayn was always thinking _Harry, Harry, Harry._ Niall was cool, a nice guy everyone in Queens loved, all blond hair and blue eyes, a smile that lit up a room, but that was it. He was a coworker. A new friend. Someone who understood his job, the flow of it, why Zayn actually enjoyed it.  
  
At first Zayn didn't even notice what was happening. He didn't notice himself getting to work a few minutes early to spend them with Niall, shooting the shit, talking about the weather or the Knicks. Niall had a way of making Zayn forget about the problems at home, the weirdness that constantly surrounded him whenever Harry was around. Zayn couldn't think about it, couldn't figure it out, because him and Harry still ate dinner, still loved each other. They laughed sometimes, still fucked in the shower. But it wasn't the same. It just wasn't. Niall helped him forget, in his own small way.  
  
The small arguments kept coming up. Harry kept forgetting him. So the weirdness kept crawling around them, nipping at their feet, and Zayn was starting to see why. The night in the elevator last month was good, but it didn't fix anything.  
  
"So you have a guy, right?" Niall asked him one evening, after they both got done delivering early, as they sat smoking on the crumbling back steps in the alley, Brooklyn's sounds banging against their ear drums.  
  
Zayn hadn't explicitly told him he was in a relationship, or in a relationship with a guy, so he scratched at his neck for a second, taking a drag from his cigarette.  
  
"Yeah. I have a guy," he said in the end, another drag of the cigarette.  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Uh, like a year and a half?" Zayn said, face screwed up, hardly believing it.  
  
"That's cool," Niall nodded, picking a piece of tobacco from his tongue, looking out over the Brooklyn landscape.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, just listening, a Spanish radio station blaring from one of the neighboring buildings, as the sun started to set.  
  
"If you ever, like… want to hang out. Come over or something," Niall said firmly, turning to look Zayn in the eye. "Just let me know. We could do that."  
  
Zayn stared back at him, stared into his blue eyes, the blue eyes trying to tell him something. Niall blinked at him, before standing up. He touched Zayn then, for the first time, by grabbing the side of his neck, moving his thumb along Zayn's jaw, just once, a firm hand against his skin, before walking back inside.  
  
Zayn sat there until the sun went down, until he knew he had to go home, go home to Harry and his loft, to their modern furniture and Harry's records and Zayn's painting above the bed, the painting he loved and Harry fucking hated.  
  
His life was always, for the last year and a half, all _Harry, Harry, Harry._  
  
They loved each other, even on the days they forgot to.  
  
So Zayn slowly stood up, walked inside, and quit.

  
  
***

  
  
Two weeks after Zayn quit his job, two weeks after Harry blew up at him for quitting and not saying why, for quitting without another job lined up, with no savings to be had, Harry finally got his second promotion.  
  
Harry walked into the loft to see Zayn on the couch with Harry's laptop, scrolling through ads and job postings. Harry had his brown bag over his shoulder like always, heavier than usual, weighing him down, stock full of manuscripts and new paperwork to fill out for his new position.  
  
He threw his bag down near the door and kicked off his shoes, all the while thinking about the day he got his first promotion, the day he was told he had moxie and ran home to Zayn and jumped into his lap, one of their best days. He wasn't sure what to do now, what the protocol was now that they spent so many weeks getting annoyed with each other, after two weeks of walking on egg shells after Harry yelled at Zayn, after he really, truly blew up at Zayn, like a true Malik.  
  
"Hey," Zayn said quietly, looking up at Harry.  
  
"Hey," Harry nodded back, standing by the door awkwardly.  
  
"How was your day?" Zayn asked, big eyes, face open.  
  
Harry almost started to cry right then and there, as he looked at Zayn, his Zayn on the couch, legs on the ottoman in front of him, lanky and hunched slightly, hair in his eyes. He looked young. He looked scared. Harry knew Zayn had never been without a job before, never wanted to rely on anyone for money.  
  
And in the midst of all that, in the midst of his internal crisis, he asked about Harry's day and genuinely wanted to know.  
  
Harry almost ran to him, almost fucking sprinted to the couch, he had to get to him. He hurried to lift the laptop from Zayn's lap before crawling into it. He buried his face into Zayn's neck and took a deep breath, breathed in Zayn's scent, his cologne and musk. And all at once, it was like the both of them exhaled. They let it go, let the tension and anxiety go. Zayn wrapped his arms around Harry's chest and held tight.  
  
"You okay, babe?" Zayn finally said against Harry's ear, rubbing his back.  
  
"I got a promotion today," Harry croaked out, crying, not even sure why.  
  
"I'm so proud of you," Zayn said with a smile, a smile Harry could hear.  
  
So he sat up and looked at Zayn and sniffled.  
  
"Really?" Harry asked, unsure if it was selfish to be happy about his promotion when Zayn needed something, anything, to make money.  
  
"I'm always proud of you," Zayn said with a slight frown, before running his thumbs along Harry's cheeks. "I'll find something, I'll find whatever. I'm always proud of you, Hazza. Always proud."  
  
Harry felt himself getting emotional again, so he leaned back in and kissed Zayn's neck, let Zayn hold him longer.  
  
And as he held tight, as he thought about the day he got the promotion, the day he crawled into Zayn's lap again, he remembered. Zayn, the man he loved with every cell in his body, every hair on his head, the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, made him pancakes that morning. He had pancakes and a glass of orange juice.

  
  
***

  
  
Their first fight never really counted, the day Harry got mad at Zayn for looking through his bag, the day he gave Zayn a key to his place. Their first real fight was different. It held weight.  
  
It was just his fucking luck, Zayn thought that day, as the elevator lurched beneath their feet. Of all the fucking days to have the elevator in Harry's building act up, the fucking elevator they met in, of course it had to be that day of all days, the day of their first real fight. They had just had dinner with his parents the week before, had just been emotionally lurched after what Yaser told them, and it was just his fucking luck now.  
  
Zayn honestly couldn't believe it, as he started hitting buttons, hit the emergency button, knocking Harry's stupid fucking table out of the way.  
  
"Don't," Harry pouted, like a child, moving the small table away from Zayn and his harsh movements by the elevator doors.  
  
They had just gotten back from the furniture store by the flea market Zayn wanted to go to, the flea market with cheap, second hand furniture with character and flaws, stories and musky smelling drawers, when Harry instead pulled him into a store to look at lamps. They left with the ugliest fucking table Zayn had ever seen, the table Harry insisted they needed for their new loft. They were moving in to the new place in a few short weeks and Harry said they needed all new furniture.  
  
"Are you fucking serious?" Zayn hit the buttons again, hoping someone outside could hear the emergency bell ringing, could hear his pissed off voice. He couldn't believe he now had to be stuck in a confined space with Harry, while they were still pissed.  
  
"I wish you'd let me have this and not be a dick about it," Harry huffed out behind him.  
  
"I let you have everything, Harry. Everything. Everything you fucking want, you get. So congratulations, you have your table."  
  
"Why do you give a shit about a table? It's a table!"  
  
"It's the principle. You never listen to anything I say, you don't notice shit. I could set myself on fire, and you probably wouldn't notice," Zayn said, still facing the frozen doors, facing away from Harry.  
  
"Oh give me a break," Zayn heard Harry say, probably crossing his arms. "If I had a nickel for every time you made a decision for us, picked something for our places, picked anything, I'd have ten fucking cents."  
  
Zayn could feel his anger level rising. He could feel it. So he shut his mouth. He wouldn't be Yaser Malik, he wouldn't get mad at the love of his life over a table, over something stupid. So he kept quiet.  
  
He didn't notice how quiet the elevator itself had become until he physically turned his body around, to see Harry in the corner, his hands over his ears, eyes screwed shut.  
  
Zayn couldn't believe it, couldn't believe he forgot Harry's fear of elevators, his fear of tight spaces. Apparently their fighting, their harsh words, were the distraction Harry needed. He quickly stepped to him, stepped into Harry's space and grabbed him around the shoulders, pulled his face to his chest.  
  
"It's okay, Hazza. Think of a field. Think of a big open field, think of that grass that makes you sneeze, yeah?" he said, soothing, against Harry's temple.  
  
"I hate fields. I hate grass, I hate the country," Harry said, still angry.  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes, but held him close.  
  
"Fine, think of the city, picture yourself on the roof, above the streets, arms open. It's wide open up there, Haz. Wide open. Listen to the cars down on the street. Smell the Chinese food from next door. The wind's in your hair."  
  
He felt Harry relax slightly against him, but knew he would have a full blown panic attack soon, if they didn't get out of there. And luckily they did get out, only ten minutes later, when one of their neighbors pried the doors open and helped them out onto the fourth floor where it always tended to stick.  
  
That was the first real fight, the first time they each threw words at each other.  
  
Their first fight was over a table.

Sort of.

  
  
***

  
  
Zayn didn't want to do it at all. He begged Harry for them not to, pleaded with Harry to stay home instead. It was the very last thing on earth he wanted to do, introduce his parents to a bright light like Harry. He tried to persuade Harry, told Harry they had saved enough money, that they should really seriously find a new place, stop stalling and dragging their feet looking at Craigslist every night and just move somewhere, anywhere.  
  
But Harry barely listened to him on a good day, so he dragged Zayn by the arm, kicking and screaming to Long Island, to the suburban street Zayn grew up on, told him they'd find a place soon enough. Zayn had told Harry about his parents, his life with them, how terrible it was, and Harry still needed to see it for himself, still wanted to prove himself to the Maliks. Zayn couldn't get his mind off it, so he let Harry take the reins, again.

If he had asked Harry why he wanted to go, Harry would've told him, quite honestly, that he wanted to meet his future in-laws, that he didn't want to prolong the inevitable anymore. If Zayn didn't want to end up like his parents, Harry needed to see why. He needed to see for himself, where Zayn came from, and what they would need to work against every day forward, holding hands, them against the world.  
  
The houses all looked the same, white and pealing, shutters on all the windows, grass neat and tidy. It was one of those half-way blocks, full of decent houses with decent yards, but all falling slightly into disrepair, as the old people around them stopped keeping up with their paint jobs.  
  
As they walked up the front steps to the house, Zayn had to take a deep breath, knowing what was in store, and also not knowing a damn thing.  If they were "silent fighting," it would be awful and tense, but quiet. If they were actually fighting, Harry was in for it. Harry never had a dad growing up, never saw his mom with another man, never had to see her wade the waters of a relationship. It was just him and his mom in the city, in a small apartment without heat some days, and they clung to each other, clung so hard and loved so deeply, Harry wouldn't understand what the Maliks were like.  
  
Zayn worried for Harry, worried for what his dad would say. So when Zayn knocked, right as Harry rang the doorbell, he winced. Harry gripped his hand tighter, held on, tried to center him, but he hung his head.  
  
Trisha opened the door and politely let them in, shook Harry's hand, her hair flying around her, her apron clinging to her slim hips. The TV was on in the living room, his dad no doubt four beers in, waiting for a dinner he probably wanted to avoid like the plague as well.  
  
"This is Harry," Zayn nodded, as they walked to the kitchen behind her.  
  
"It's nice to meet you, Harry. I hope you like spaghetti," Trisha said over her shoulder, as she neared the stove.  
  
"Oh, yes please. I like everything," Harry nodded, looking to Zayn.  
  
Zayn shrugged and went for the cabinet next to Harry's head, grabbing dishes to set the table, before his dad had to ask him to. That was the funny thing about Yaser Malik. He'd yell at Zayn, tell him to do something to "help your mother out, please," and then in the next breath tell Trisha she was fucking stupid.  
  
Harry followed him into the dining room, helped him set the table, as the TV blared in the next room.  
  
When Yaser finally walked in, right as Trisha set the last dish on the table, he sized Harry up, looked him up and down. Zayn had warned Harry not to look away from Yaser, that Yaser found that to be a weak trait, looking away when someone looked at you, so Harry stared right back. He warned Harry that Yaser would judge him for being from the city, for never working like everyone in their family worked, in stores and garages and stock rooms, would hate Harry's soft hands.  
  
Zayn had also warned him that Yaser didn't give a flying fuck that he was gay, didn't ever care when he had boyfriends. He just didn't like when other people were happy, even if it was his son, gay or not.  
  
"Hello, I'm Harry," Harry said, as he stuck his arm out. Yaser eventually gripped his hand, hard, like Zayn knew he would.  
  
"Harry from the city," he returned, in a clipped tone, before walking to the head of the table to sit. "Hello."  
  
They all settled in their chairs, Harry rubbing at his forehead the way he did when he was especially nervous. Zayn tried to calm him somewhat, by crossing his eyes at him for a brief second. Harry rewarded him with a small smile, as he reached for the peas.  
  
He almost dropped the spoon though, when Yaser spoke.  
  
"Spaghetti?"  
  
His voice was low, deadly, angry.  
  
"Yes, spaghetti," Trisha said back, angry as well, serving herself.  
  
Zayn looked at Harry and tried to apologize with his eyes. Harry looked back at him bewildered, not sure if he should move.  
  
"We have Zayn for the night, company over, and we're serving spaghetti? Fucking Christ," Yaser huffed out, grabbing his fork.  
  
"If you wanted something else, you should've said something. Just eat," Trisha practically hissed back.  
  
Zayn hated all of it, the fighting he prayed wouldn't be present today, of all days. At least if they were pissed enough to be not speaking, Zayn could do what he always did and ask questions to get it over with, to fill the silence with random anecdotes. He sighed, looked to Harry again, his eyes sad.  
  
They all ate silently for a few minutes, Yaser and Trisha obviously fuming. Zayn saw Harry glancing at them, nervous, looking back at Zayn with apologetic eyes of his own, for making them do this. Zayn thought they were at least going to make it out of the dining room, head to the living room or front porch, before Yaser said anything truly heinous. But nothing ever seemed to go Zayn's way, not when it came to his parents, so Yaser set his fork down and looked at them both.  
  
Zayn braced himself, knew it wasn't going to be pretty.  
  
"How long have you been together?" he asked, eyes flicking back and forth between them.  
  
"Uh, almost a year," Harry said, clearing his throat.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Zayn hung his head, before glancing to Harry. Harry seemed confused at the question.  
  
"Uh, why? We… we just get along, I guess. We love each other," Harry said, setting down his own fork, still confused.  
  
"Don't," Trisha warned Yaser, as he looked at her with hard eyes.  
  
He turned back to Harry.  
  
"Love is a fucking fight, son. It's a fucking battle. They tell you to fall in love, to compromise, and do what you're told, do what the other person tells you. And I'm telling you right now, don't believe that. Love is a fight. Fight for what you want, otherwise you end up sitting around eating shitty spaghetti. You hear me?"  
  
Harry looked to Zayn, before turning back to Yaser.  
  
"Everything turns into a fight, everything," Trisha huffed out.  
  
Yaser turned to Zayn, looked him dead in the eye and said it.  
  
"Exactly. And it's not fucking worth it. Have a great fucking life, boys. You're just going to end up here."  
  
That was the last thing Yaser said, as he gestured around the room, before pushing back from the table and walking back to the living room. He turned the TV up again, as high as it would go, and that was it.  
  
When they left soon after, after they helped Trisha do the dishes, after she turned away so they couldn't see her face, Harry clung to Zayn's hand, hanging on for dear life, and whispered in his ear that he was sorry. They never should've come.  
  
Zayn knew they shouldn't have come, and he came anyway. He let Harry talk him into it, just like he let Harry talk him into a lot of things. That was part of their problem.  
  
And if they had been paying attention, if they had listened to Yaser, listened to themselves a little better, maybe they wouldn't have moved into the loft a month later. Maybe they would've talked.  
  
But Zayn kept everything close and Harry forgot on purpose.

  
  
***

  
  
You'll notice how for the first few months after living together, both Zayn and Harry convinced themselves they weren't a couple who fought, a couple who let things get between them. _We don't fight,_ they both thought, _not really._  
  
But they did. They let things get to them almost daily, things they should've let go, things most people would roll their eyes at and move on from.  
  
They both felt it, the love they had for each other shifting. They both knew what the other wanted, in life, in the future, and they kept ignoring all of it. They ignored their perpendicular futures so hard, so forcefully, their feelings started to come out in other ways, over disagreements about paintings and counter tops and clocks.  
  
They ignored everything.  
  
They weren't even trying to fix anything that night in the elevator, because they weren't actively thinking of their issues when it happened. Harry's coworker had invited them out to a bar that night, a rooftop bar uptown they had never been to, a bar Harry absolutely loved. It had low hanging strings of light, fancy cocktails, people walking around in boots that cost more than his entire closet, girls in dresses so small, he had to keep his eyes up, lest they get an eyeful by accident. Zayn felt uncomfortable the entire time, naturally, being a man who enjoyed a quiet pub, hole-in-the-wall bars with two beers on tap and shelves of shitty whiskey.  
  
But they still had a pretty good time anyways, Harry thought. They held hands when they stood next to each other, drinking with Harry's coworkers and spouses, as they talked about the new mayor, the weather, the newest manuscript Harry helped discover.  
  
And when they were separated, Zayn at the bar talking to strangers (because he can, when he has to) with Harry's beanie on his head, Harry in the corner booth with his favorite copy editors, they locked eyes a few times. Harry crossed his at Zayn, their secret signal, which made Zayn throw his head back and laugh, his big laugh that made his eyes disappear.  
  
When they were in the elevator heading back down to the street, just the two of them, liquored up and hazy, warm and content, they locked eyes again. And it was like everything they had fought about the last few weeks didn't exist. Harry's great at forgetting things, if he has to, and Zayn's great at doing whatever Harry asks of him.  
  
It's hazy, looking back on it, so neither know who did it first, or if they truly did it at the same time. But some how their hands found the STOP button, the emergency stop button in the fancy elevator that looked like an old time hotel elevator, with it's ornate red plush floor and walls, gold plates on the walls, gold buttons. The bell rang out around them, alerting the entire building that they were stuck, but they didn't hear it. It was all white noise in the end.  
  
Because once the elevator stopped, once they were stuck on purpose, they flew at each other. Harry grabbed for Zayn's face and opened his mouth with his, shoved his tongue in as fast he could, as they scrambled to touch every inch they could. Zayn grabbed for Harry's ass, pulled him closer, created the friction they both needed. Harry shoved Zayn against the wall and they panted, scratched at backs, bit lips. Harry couldn't let himself think about the fact that they were in a tiny box suspended above the earth by a flimsy cable, in a box they stopped on purpose, and Zayn knows him, so Zayn turned them and shoved Harry against the wall instead.  
  
They knew they didn't have much time, before they came and opened the doors, before someone yelled to see if they were okay, so Harry let Zayn set their pace, Zayn the more cautious of the two of them, the one who would need them to hurry and get move on. He grabbed Harry by the shirt and pushed him against the other side of the elevator, face first. He reached around with shaking hands to undo his belt, as Harry panted against the plush red fabric.  
  
"I love you," Zayn huffed out, as he tugged Harry's jeans and briefs to his knees. "I really fucking love you."  
  
"I love you, too," Harry whined, when Zayn grabbed for his cock.  
  
"I want you, I always want you. I never want us apart, okay?" Zayn said into his ear, hand moving up and down on Harry's dick deliciously fast, precome spreading down his fingers.  
  
"Yeah?" Harry whispered, pushing his ass back into Zayn. "Show me."  
  
Harry heard Zayn exhale, heard the _fuck_ he couldn't keep in, as Zayn stepped back to undo his own jeans. Harry brought a hand to his own dick now, waiting, wondering how this would work. He smiled, thinking of the egg Zayn told him to hold in his ass only four months after they met, that night in the bar, the night they said they loved each other. They'd never done anything like that again, until now, in a cramped space because they couldn't help it.  
  
Just then, Harry opened his eyes as Zayn grabbed his hip with one hand, the other now in his line of sight, next to his face.  
  
"Spit," Zayn groaned.  
  
Harry did just that, he spit into Zayn's palm. He heard Zayn spit into it behind him, before feeling two wet fingers work their way into him. The stretch ached, he hissed, as Zayn used only their saliva to open him up. It was a burn, something he hadn't felt in a few weeks. But he pushed back, pushed against Zayn, as he moved his hand up and down his cock.  
  
They didn't have time for games, so Zayn removed his fingers after a few more minutes of stretching, and held his palm back to Harry. Harry spit into it again, as much spit as he could muster from his dried out mouth, dried from the whining and panting Zayn had pulled out of him. Zayn spit again, and then Harry felt it, Zayn pushing into him.  
  
"Fuck," Harry huffed against the red wall, as he felt the familiar ache, pure and utter Zayn behind him, hands on hips.  
  
When he bottomed out, Zayn spit again, right onto Harry's ass. He felt it drip down to where their bodies met, and he couldn't help the shiver that shuddered through him.  
  
"You love me? You love me, Haz?" Zayn groaned against his back, as he shifted his feet, as he shoved into him.  
  
"I love you," Harry whined, nails scraping against the fabric near his face.  
  
Zayn came first, came right as he pulled out, over Harry's lower back with a grunt and one last squeeze of Harry's hips. He came with Harry's name on his lips and Harry's smiling face hovering in his mind. And when Harry came right after, came in his hand, it was with Zayn's name on his breath and Zayn's entire being, the security blanket he represents, hovering in his mind.  
  
When the elevator doors opened five minutes later, after they hit the STOP button again and straightened themselves, tried in vain to clean themselves up and look presentable, they laughed at the faces of the people staring at them.  
  
Before they stepped into the elevator, they weren't thinking of their problems. But after they stepped out of it, they both thought, individually, quietly, as they held hands on the walk home, that maybe it fixed everything.  
  
It didn't.

  
  
***

  
  
"I got a job today," Zayn said over dinner, as they sat across from each other at the table, two full months after he quit.  
  
Harry looked up at him, startled. They hadn't talked as they made dinner, didn't say much as they set the table. They hadn't talked all day, actually. They hadn't talked about what Harry wanted to tell Zayn, Harry not knowing how to bring it up.  
  
"That's great," Harry said earnestly, leaning forward. "Where? Doing what?"  
  
"A moving company. They work out of mid-Bronx. So I'll be all over the city again, like before," Zayn nodded, moving the rice around on his plate with his fork.  
  
Harry sat back. A moving company. Zayn, moving furniture and bookcases, file cabinets and office supplies, from place to place. Another job for Zayn to pick things up and set somewhere else.  
  
"That's good," Harry said, finally.  
  
Zayn stared at him. He very clearly wanted to tell Harry, yet again, that a job is a job is a job. It doesn't have to define you, it doesn't have to hold some deep meaning. Because life isn't a job. Life is life, life is family and happiness, it's fucking in elevators, walking in the park, having kids with the person you love.  
  
But he kept quiet.  
  
"Yeah, it is good. I needed something. And they pay well. I get tips, too. I'll have money," Zayn said, as he set his fork down. "I'l be able to save up."  
  
 _For a ring, if you want one,_ Zayn thought.  
  
But he kept quiet.  
  
"We should celebrate," Harry said, in a low voice, setting his own fork down.  
  
"How?"  
  
Zayn envisioned a cake, maybe a dinner at his favorite place, a present, an egg in a box. He envisioned something happy, something they'd both enjoy.  
  
"With the promotion I got a few weeks back, they want to test me out, see how I do on the road, see if I'd get progress even farther with the company. See if I can go to the other smaller publishers in the region. They want to send me to Newark on Friday. We could stay there that night."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"So you should come. We'll stay at a hotel there, celebrate."  
  
Zayn sat back, knowing this wasn't really for him, yet again. This was for Harry. Harry must've tried to bring this up since the second he walked in the door, while they sat and watched TV on the couch, while they made dinner.  
  
Harry wanted this, wanted to be promoted again, wanted to prove himself. He wanted more money. He wanted to feel important and settled. He wanted Zayn to want to work somewhere besides a moving company, and yet here they were.  
  
Harry, thinking about work, and Zayn thinking about a ring.  
  
"Yeah, we should do that," Zayn said finally. "Sounds good, Haz."  
  
Harry heard it in his voice, the bored tone, the sadness in it. But he just grabbed their plates and walked to the sink.  
  
Zayn heard it in Harry's voice, heard Harry trying, the pleading, the desperation for Zayn to want to go. But he just got up and walked to the bedroom.

  
  
***

  
  
They had been together for nine months, the exact time it takes for a baby to make its way into the world, ironically enough, before they discussed it.  
  
They were in Zayn's bed, next to the window, listening to the sounds of the city breezing in the window, as Zayn had a cigarette after their second round that night. They were both spent, sweaty, as Zayn sucked the smoke into his lungs, as his eyelids started to move slower and slower. Harry had his head on Zayn's chest, ran his fingers through the light hair there, over and over, side to side, as a dog barked on the street below, as a siren went off a few blocks away.  
  
"That was good," Harry smiled against his skin. "We're so good, you know?"  
  
"We are," Zayn agreed, blowing smoke out the window.  
  
Harry leaned up on his elbow and grabbed for the cigarette, took a drag as Zayn watched. Zayn always loved Harry's lips, could watch Harry suck him off, sip at a straw, lick ice cream, smoke cigarettes. He could never look away whenever the focus could be on Harry's mouth. His interest in the world around him dropped off, the second Harry did anything outright with his mouth.  
  
Harry handed it back and smiled at him, before laying back on his chest.  
  
"I could do this, you know. Like, for the rest of my life," Harry said, the words floating around them, right there next to the smoke, hanging above them.  
  
"Yeah?" Zayn said, grabbing for Harry's hair.  
  
"If you'll have me, I guess."  
  
"I'll have you."  
  
"Yeah?" Harry shifted, lifting his chin to rest on Zayn's chest, looking him in the eye.  
  
"I always want you, Haz. I literally want you next to me all the time. If I'm at work, I'm mad you're not there."  
  
"Me too," Harry smiled, thinking of the days he wastes at the office, at the new desk and new position he'd had for three months, the hours he spent thinking of Zayn, Zayn's hands, his eyes.  
  
"We'll get a house someday. How's that sound?" Zayn said quietly, grabbing Harry's ear to lay his head back down on his chest.  
  
"Yeah?" Harry whispered, getting tired.  
  
"Up north. I like Maine. Or Connecticut. Somewhere our kids can play. We'll have a big yard," Zayn smiled, thinking of the future. He thought about his future being the opposite of what his parents had, of what they did. He didn't want to be unhappy, living in a house with a kid they had on accident, a kid they thought might fix everything. He wouldn't be Yaser.  
  
"I like the city," Harry yawned, eyes closing. "I don't want a house outside of the city. I want a house here. A brownstone."  
  
"But kids need a yard," Zayn frowned slightly.  
  
"But if we don't have kids, we'd be so far from the city. We need to be close to here, right?" Harry nuzzled against Zayn's chest, tucked his entire body against Zayn even more, closer.  
  
Zayn didn't say anything to that, didn't respond. He knew Harry would be asleep soon. Harry lay there with his eyes closed, waiting for Zayn to say something, to tell him if that was okay, if that's what he wanted, but he was quiet.  
  
They had the conversation nine months in, after nine months of not asking each other where they were headed, what they wanted. It was before they had dinner with the Maliks, before their first fight, before they moved in together.  
  
They had the conversation, they both clearly said what they wanted out of life, after a night of coming together, a night they called their own, in Zayn's tiny apartment above the city. But they never brought it up again, they didn't want to.  
  
The next day, they had a small, insignificant argument about how Harry never hung his towel up in the bathroom after his showers. Zayn told Harry it drove him nuts having to collect Harry's wet towels time after time. Harry apologized, sort of, but he continued to do it, because he kept forgetting.  
  
It's easy to get annoyed over towels. It's easier than talking about brownstones and yards and babies.

  
  
***

  
  
Zayn thought about so many things as he looked at the remnants of the ceramic bowl, as Harry stood near the door and stared at the same stretch of floor he did, the floor with pieces of the bowl across it.  
  
Zayn thought about the fight two weeks before, the fight that had him leave for the first time, the fight that caused him to spend the night at his boss Michelle's house. Harry had told Zayn, flippantly, that he got the third promotion he had been angling for. He told Zayn about the traveling, the places across the country he'd be venturing to, to merge different smaller publishing houses into one. He was going to be so important, integral to the expansion of the company. He was in charge of people, with an office and his own assistant. He thought about Harry calling him jealous, and how he told Harry to go fuck himself right after.  
  
Zayn remembered the conversation they had before moving in together, the conversation about the house he wanted, the house Harry didn't want. They knew, even then, that they wanted completely different things. Zayn wanted their family to grow, he wanted to see Harry with a little girl on his shoulders, a popsicle in her mouth, Harry laughing. He wanted a little boy swinging between their arms, up north, in a park where they can stretch out. Harry wanted an office and an assistant.  
  
Zayn thought about their night in Newark, the night they spent in a hotel to celebrate his new job at the moving company. That was the last night they had sex, almost two months before, in a shitty bed that wasn't theirs, in a city neither of them knew how to navigate. Harry was on top, held Zayn's hands against the mattress, as Zayn slammed his hips up, as he fucked into Harry with every ounce of strength he had. They didn't talk during it, didn't laugh. It wasn't fun, wasn't playful. When they came, it was because they knew how to get each other off quickly. That's what Zayn thought about, as he shifted his wrist the way he knew Harry liked, the way he knew could get Harry there: he was doing it, making Harry come, because he was supposed to. They slept together because they were in a hotel room, celebrating something, not because they actually fucking wanted to.  
  
Harry thought about a few things as he stood by the door, as Zayn stared at the floor. He thought about things so quickly, he almost missed a few of them.  
  
Harry thought about their first date, in the Chinese restaurant by his old apartment, and how Zayn told him during one of their very first conversations that work wasn't something he enjoyed, wasn't something he needed. Zayn saw making money as a necessary evil, a means to an end, a way to save for a house, or a baby, or a new pair of jeans when the knees finally gave out. He never understood that part of Harry, the part that wanted to go out and wear suits, the part that wanted to work and laugh in the office, see the world, change it, because work can be fun and fulfilling for some people.  
  
Harry thought about the day he brought the clock home, the ticking clock they tried to put in the hallway, the clock that ended up in the kitchen. He saw Zayn's face when he pulled it out, saw the grimace in his expression. Zayn hated everything Harry liked. He thought about the counter top, when Zayn shoved him against it, made it dig into his skin, made it hurt, to prove a point. They were always proving points to each other.  
  
Harry remembered their first night together, only four days after they met, on Harry's bed, at Harry's insistence, at Harry's pace. He asked Zayn what he wanted, told Zayn to do what he wanted to do, and he still had to force Zayn's hand. He had to move up the bed so Zayn would follow him, had to hand him the lube because if he didn't, Zayn wouldn't have grabbed for it. It wasn't a big deal then, not much was, but when he looks back, that's all Harry sees: his hand forcing Zayn to move.  
  
They both brought their eyes up, away from the floor, to stare at each other. The longer they stared, the angrier they both became. Zayn's hands started to shake, Harry had to keep his face even, had to get the look off of it he so wanted to bring out, the look of disgust.  
  
Harry was angry at Zayn for getting them to this place, this place of anger and sadness. Zayn was angry at Harry for pulling him in, for making him fall in love with him, and giving him nothing in return. They were angry, pushing, and yet still trying to pull the other closer. They kept holding on, holding tight, fingers grasping at air, grasping and grasping.  
  
They couldn't let go.  
  
"Are you fucking him?" Harry asked, voice level, surprisingly.  
  
"No, Harry. I am not fucking him," Zayn returned, voice also level. "We worked together at the courier company, months ago. He's a nice person. We ran into each other and said hello."  
  
"You looked pretty fucking happy to see him, really fucking excited, Zayn."  
  
"Not much makes me fucking happy these days," Zayn said viciously. "So yeah, I'm sure I did look happy. I probably looked ecstatic."  
  
"Fuck you," Harry hissed, walking closer.  
  
"Fuck _you_ , Harry. Fuck all of this."  
  
"I'm so sick of you punishing me. You punish me for not wanting kids, for not wanting a family and a fucking house up north. I can't help it, Zayn. Wanting to have a good job, wanting to live in the city, doesn't make me a bad fucking person."  
  
"And you don't punish me?" Zayn yelled, the anger finally breaking through, pulling at his hair. "You don't think you punish me, Harry? All I _feel_ is the weight of your punishment, of your disappointment, sitting on top of me. I can barely fucking _breathe_ , you dislike me so much."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"You look at me and see the Zayn from two years ago, the Zayn who still just wanted to make enough money to live how I want to live. That's who I am, I like things simple, easy. I'm not jealous of your job, I'm not jealous of you at all, Harry. I like working simple, okay? I liked my small apartment. I liked _your_ small apartment! We didn't need this!" Zayn gestured wildly, at the loft around them.  
  
"Then why are we here?" Harry screamed back, also throwing his hands into the air.  
  
They had started this fight, had started yelling at each other, yelling the things they had kept in for so long. They couldn't stop.  
  
"I wanted you, Harry. I wanted all of it. I wanted the rings, and the fucking wedding, I wanted to share it all with you. You said you wanted it, too. You said that."  
  
"I want a lot of things. I want a lot, okay? I wanted the rings and the wedding, I wanted _you!_ But now? Now... what you want, and what I want, they're not the same, Zayn. They're not," Harry said fast, walking around the loft now, back and forth, tears in his eyes.  
  
Harry walked to the door, slid it to the side, stepped into the hall, walked all the way down it towards the elevator, needing to catch his breath. He needed a minute, outside of the loft, away from Zayn and their furniture and his record player.  
  
When he walked back in, Zayn was sitting in the chair by the window, with a bewildered expression. It was like it all hit him at once, it hit him first, before Harry realized it.  
  
"So you see me talking to a guy on the street, some fucking guy, and that's it? Is this it?" Zayn said, dumbstruck, awed, eyes wide.  
  
"I saw you talking to a guy. You were talking to a guy and smiling," Harry said, as his body snapped, as he physically felt himself curl and shrivel up. He sank to the couch opposite Zayn, sank right onto it.  
  
"It was nothing, I swear," Zayn said, shaking his head.  
  
"I know," Harry nodded, because he did know, before looking up at him. "But you were happy. And smiling. And it wasn't with me."  
  
Zayn stared at Harry, his chin shaking.  
  
Harry stared at Zayn, his heart beating firmly against his chest.  
  
One of the last exchanges they had that night, before they each sat there quietly for hours, thinking things over, before Harry made tea to busy his hands, before Zayn kicked his shoes off, to settle in, was a simple one.  
  
"It's over. Right?" Harry whispered from the couch.  
  
"Yeah. It's over," Zayn said clear as day, before hanging his head.

  
  
***

  
  
"I'm Zayn."  
  
"I'm Harry."  
  
Zayn stared at this stranger next to him in the elevator, after one of his first deliveries of the day, and couldn't believe it. This guy with the crazy hair and busted boots looked back at him, eyes wide, still licking cream cheese from his lips, and Zayn couldn't believe his luck. He never felt lucky, ever really, until that moment.  
  
Harry had never seen someone so staggeringly gorgeous before. And even if he had, if he came across a model in a bar, or a gorgeous boy in a crowded restaurant, they were never looking back at him, smiling, like this guy in the elevator.  
  
"You live here?" Zayn asked, gesturing to the the elevator doors.  
  
"Yeah," Harry nodded, shifting his bag, the bag Zayn helped him put on correctly.  
  
"I read once that a guy was murdered on the second floor of this building, some hooker killed him. Smothered him," Zayn said, nodding, as the light above the doors flashed a red 2.  
  
"Huh," Harry, caught off guard said back. "I never knew that."  
  
"You think this place is haunted? Might be, right?"  
  
"Might be," Harry smiled, looking away.  
  
They stood in silence as the elevator settled, cable creaking slightly, as the doors opened to the lobby, near the mailboxes and plant that smelled like piss. Zayn held his arm out, let Harry walk ahead of him, before following, grasping his helmet and clipboard tighter in his hands.  
  
Harry shuffled his feet, slowly, even though he had an interview to get to, as Zayn came walking behind him. He was just about to give up, to walk out the front door, when Zayn touched his arm, lightly, with his own.  
  
"You want to get dinner later?" he said, sure as ever, a smile on his face.  
  
"Okay," Harry smiled back.  
  
Harry wrote his number on the top purchase order of Zayn's clipboard, right there next to the receipt Zayn would have to hand to his boss later. But he didn't care. He needed that number like he needed oxygen, it seemed.  
  
And once they were outside and heading down the block in different directions, giving slight waves, they both felt it.  
  
Something had happened on that elevator, something really good.  
  
 

 

 

 


	4. Epilogue

  
_Now._

  
  
Zayn Malik and Harry Styles were never built to last, not really.  
  
Not every story begins with a cute meeting in an elevator and ends with a house in Connecticut, a baby in a stroller, a minivan in the driveway. Not all love stories end like movies tell you they do.  
  
Sometimes they just… end.  
  
Sometimes a boy from a tiny apartment in the city, a boy who used to make his own breakfasts, wants to grow up and stay in the city, take care of himself, have a job that makes him feel secure and safe, a life that makes him feel worthy and important, a life that's exciting and joyous and so full of happy people, of random strangers and close friends, he explodes with it. That boy wants to change and evolve every day.  
  
Sometimes a boy from a might-as-well-be broken home in Long Island, a boy who used to do the family's laundry so his mom wouldn't "do it wrong" and make his dad angry, wants to grow up and live in a house in the country, take care of those around him, with a job that pays just enough to be comfortable, to live a life that's simple and free and so full of love, he aches with it. That boy wants his world to stay the same and settle around him.  
  
When two people want different things, when those things become too big and too intrusive, it has to end. It just has to. Moving in together won't fix anything, neither will a quick fuck in an elevator, or a night in a hotel to "reconnect." If those two people are smart enough to recognize it, if they're smart enough to end it before it gets worse, you silently applaud them like their neighbors did. You nod as they move their things out of the loft, because those people never should've moved in together in the first place. Luckily they got out when it was time.  
  
Some things end.  
  
Because love is not a fight, it's not a battle. Love shouldn't be something to get through, something to slave away at because you think you're supposed to. You're supposed to compromise and find common ground, in the little things, if you can. You let the clocks and the record players and the chairs go, even if it sucks, hoping the compromises are worth it. But if they're not, and if when it comes to compromising in the big things, if you can't, if you won't, if it's impossible, you don't fight it out.  
  
You let it go.  
  
So after the last box is in Harry's mom's car, after the last nail hole has been patched up by Zayn, after the loft is empty and cavernous like the day they moved in, Harry and Zayn stand in the middle of it and look around.  
  
Zayn doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to end it, so he prays silently that Harry helps him and shows him how, shows him what to do like he always has. And because Harry Styles knows him, he does.  
  
"You'll think of me, right?" Harry says, a tear falling down his cheek, as he turns to face Zayn.  
  
"I'll think of you all the time, Hazza, if you think of me too," Zayn whispers, his eyes wet, close enough to Harry now that he can smell his cologne, the cologne he bought him for his birthday last year.  
  
Zayn pulls him close, hugs him with all the energy he has.  
  
Harry lets him, he holds on tight.  
  
Zayn gives Harry his hat back, the beanie he used to steal when his ears got cold. Harry gives Zayn his sweater back, the sweater from their very first date that he's been curling up on the couch in ever since. They both cry. They hug a second time. And then they hug again.  
  
"Bye."  
  
That was the last thing Zayn Malik ever said to Harry Styles.  
  
"Bye."  
  
That was the last thing Harry Styles ever said to Zayn Malik.

  
  
***

  
  
 _Down the road._

 

  
  
They weren't lying, you should know that.  
  
Zayn thinks of Harry every time he hangs a new picture in the small apartment he rents in Queens for the next few years, every time he helps a friend hang a mirror in their new places around the city, and then in new places outside of the city. He thinks of Harry when he accidentally pounds a hole into the living room wall of his house, the house he buys in Maine years and years later, the fixer-upper he had to scrape money to get a loan for, far away from the parents who couldn't be happy if they tried, far away from the people who told him attempting to be happy wasn't worth it.  
  
He smiled at that, at the hole in his wall. He never even filled it in. He let it sit there, told his kids it was a "happy accident," a hole made by his hammer because his movements are still harsh. He thought to himself every time he looked at that hole, _should've been more careful_ , that's what Harry always told him.  
  
Harry thinks of Zayn every time he eats an onion bagel, every time he grabs one from the corner bakery in Tribeca for the next few years, and then every time he eats one for breakfast with the friends he meets in Los Angeles after he bought his mom a condo there, a place she can spread her arms and not touch two walls, a place she can let the sun soak in her skin. He thinks of Zayn whenever he eats shitty bagels in airports, flying from place to place, where he does the business side of publishing, and where he reads books he wants to buy, books he prints so they can change the world.  
  
He smiled whenever he had a bagel, especially onion ones. He never let himself forget that first breakfast, the stale bagel he had shoved in his mouth the first time they saw each other. He told every boyfriend he ever had, that onion bagels were his favorite, but he never said why. Zayn had inadvertently taught him he would be fine alone, when he had to be, so he had no trouble keeping some of his thoughts close to his chest, kept them to himself.  
  
They also thought of each other every time either of them stepped into an elevator, smiles on their faces, cheeks pink.  
  
They rarely loved the same things, but they loved each other, once. Underneath all the pain they had to endure in the end, underneath the issues they could never get past, at the heart of it, they loved each other fiercely, unconditionally, effortlessly.  
  
Zayn loved Harry, and Harry loved Zayn, and at one time, for the briefest of moments, it was really, _really_ good.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need to talk it out, leave me comments. Let's cry together?
> 
> Please be nice to me.
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/this_onegoes/)   
>  [Tumblr](http://this-onegoes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
